


Stunning Monochrome

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, White House era, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: "The bond is dead already.  Or haven't you noticed?"Dan closes his eyes.  He’s noticed.  Of course he's noticed the edges of his world blurring into grey.It takes losing his soulbond for Dan to find his soulmate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Ani DiFrano's inspirational [Grey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwWWXfxrd1g).
> 
> This fic is mostly done, so I'll be aiming to post a chapter a week for the next few weeks (five chapters + an epilogue). _crosses fingers_
> 
> Thank you to Maddie, who has read every word of this along the way and has been endlessly patient with my Danlo struggles!

"I found out about the job from the New York fucking Post." Dan’s struggling to breath, and he reaches up so he can loosen his tie and undo the top few buttons on his shirt. "Even worse, I had to find about the Post article from Alyssa."

Sarah's back tightens under the red dress she's wearing. It's tight in all the right places. Dan wishes he had noticed before she had started to pack her toiletries. "I've been trying to tell you for weeks. What did you think that dinner was all about?"

Dan shrugs. He slides his hands into his pants pockets. "Spicing up our sex life? I know it's been awhile, but C2-52 goes to Congress next week and-" She squeezes a last pair of shoes into her favorite pink and blue suitcase and uses all her weight to close it. He changes tactics. "I'm sorry I cancelled the dinners. But it was only a couple of times, and I made sure I was free tonight."

She puts all her anger into it and the zipper closes. Dan flinches. "Your secretary called. She told me about the meeting."

"It was just a call,” he argues. “It wouldn't have taken more than five minutes.”

She shakes her head, sadly. "And it wasn't a couple of dinners. It was five."

"Five?" Dan frowns. "I've cancelled five?"

"In the past three weeks." She drags the suitcase off the bed, holding up her hand when he steps forward to help. "I don’t want to do this anymore."

"Sarah, please, put the suitcase down. Let's talk about this." Dan's heart is beating erratically, and he holds his hand over his chest as he follows her into the living room. "I'm really, really sorry that I've been taking you for granted. I can do better."

She leaves the suitcase by the door, next to her packed handbag, and crosses to him, pressing her hand over his. Her nails are painted silver, to match her shoes. "It's not only that. If we were meant to be, it wouldn't be this hard."

"We're soulmates." Dan’s voice catches, cracking the word in half.

She smiles sadly, threading his tie between her fingers. "And a part of me will always love you. But, sometimes, fate doesn't know best."

Dan swallows. "Where are you staying? I'll come by, we can do breakfast. Talk some more."

She reaches onto her tiptoes so she can press a kiss to his cheek. "This is the one thing you can't fix."

"I can try." His knees are weak and his voice even weaker.

She takes a step back, pulling a ticket out of her back pocket. Her eyes are shining brown and a little watery and her hand is shaking, a little, as she holds it up. "My flight leaves in a few hours. I put in my notice a couple of weeks ago and I, ahh, start at Facebook on Monday."

Dan pauses. Alyssa showed him the article, he knows about the Facebook offer, he knows it’s a wonderful opportunity, he knows she's been thinking about taking it, but- “you're risking everything - our bond, our colors, the life we've built - for a job?"

"You've risked everything," she parrots, her voice sad and biting, "for a job."

"For the most important job I'll ever do. For these eight years, while POTUS is in the White House.Then we'll do all the things we've ever talked about. We'll get the house and the kids and the dog and-"

She's shaking her head. "I'm not willing to wait. Not any more. Not if it isn't right."

"The bond-"

"Is dead already. Or haven't you noticed?"

Dan closes his eyes. He’s noticed. Of course he's noticed the edges of his world blurring into grey. A month ago, when the wintery DC sky slid wordlessly from bright, ice blue to a particular shade of blue-grey. Last Tuesday, when the flowers on his desk, left over from a diplomatic dinner, changed from pink to steal grey between paragraphs of the speech he was reading. Just a few hours ago, when he tried to get into Tommy's metallic blue Civic because he couldn't tell the difference between it and his metallic grey model.

He opens his eyes, nodding slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” She smiles sadly, like that was the last confirmation she needed. She reaches for her jacket and wraps her red-and-navy striped scarf around her neck. It's less vibrant than it was even an hour ago, when he passed it on his way into the house.

"At least let me drive you to the airport?"

She settles her handbag on her shoulder and opens her mouth to answer, when his phone rings.

She pulls her house keys out of her bag and places them on the table, then grabs her suitcase. "You should probably get that. I'll grab a cab."

“I can-” Dan’s mouth twists, and he takes a step back, out of the way. "Call me when you land."

"I'll call you when I'm settled," she compromises. The door clicks open and she slips outside in a flash of red and pink and blue. Outside, the streetlights cast an orange glow across the sidewalk.

Then the door shuts behind her and Dan jolts, looking down at his blackberry. He accepts the call. "Pfeiffer here."

"Dan. Michael Barbaro, New York Times. You have time now? Your secretary said you'd have a few minutes."

"Yeah." Dan swallows, crossing the room to his liquor cabinet and opening the bottle of bourbon he's been saving for a special occasion. "I've got as much time as you need."

***

Dan’s colors fade slowly.

When he’d thought about failed soulbonds, in those rare moments when he’d let himself think about them, he’d always assumed that the color loss would be immediate. He remembers discussing it once at Georgetown, on a late Friday night during his Sophomore year, the room filled with empty glasses and a few joints already passed around the circle.

“What would you do if you lost your soulbond?” Dan’s roommate, Pete, had asked, with all the sincerity of his twenty years. “Not, like, because of a death or a head injury or anything. Just, like, you fell out of love.”

Anna - a beautiful, redheaded Junior who sat next to Dan in Micro Economics and who, for one blazing moment the spring before, Dan had thought was his soulmate - had scrunched her nose. “That’s really rare.”

“Yeah, but, it does happen,” Pete had insisted. “We read a bunch of case studies about it in Soulmate Psychology this week. One day, soulmates. The next, poof.” 

Anna had spread her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankle, and shrugged loftily. “I’d probably join a convent. It would be so _mortifying_.”

“Do you think,” Dan’s other roommate, Sam, had asked as he coughed a little and passed the joint to Dan, “that your colors fade, like, instantly?”

“Probably,” Dan had said, as he took a draw. “They come instantly, they probably go that way, too.”

“True.” Sam had tipped his chin, thoughtfully. “But, do you think you’d, like, remember what the world should look like?”

“This is fucking depressing,” Anna had interrupted. “New topic.”

And that had been that. Dan had been young and idealistic, and he’d quickly forgotten the rapid, panicky beat of his heart at the mere thought. And if he had gone back to it every so often, in his darker moments on campaign buses and on lonely nights in his tiny one-room Logan Square apartment- well, that was normal. Everyone worries that their world will stay grey forever. 

His fears were assuaged two years later, when he first caught sight of Sarah from across the bullpen at the Al Gore Campaign and his world burst instantly into a kaleidoscope of blue campaign flyers and red banners and the blonde of her hair. He never worried about it again.

For all the crude, indelicate joy of the beginning, though, his soulbond fizzles out with none of the same blinding clarity. His colors dim and dull in bits and pieces, with a bittersweet elegance that, Dan figures, is meant to help him adjust his senses without endangering his health. Like a frog in water, the boil so slow and innocuous that he doesn’t know he’s being burned.

In Dan’s more generous moments, he appreciates fate’s effort to maintain his dignity. He doesn’t like to think about what would have happened if the Oval Office had suddenly snapped into shades of greys and taupes. Instead, he looks down at the seal during Senior Staff the Monday after Sarah leaves and, with just a small startle, has to shuffle back through his memory to try and pinpoint the day it went more steel than old glory blue.

“Dan?” Axe raises an eyebrow. “Something on the ground more interesting than farm subsidies?”

Dan glances up, looking from Axe to the President, who’s frowning at him, concerned. Dan flushes. “Nothing’s more interesting than farm subsidies, especially not the fifteen reporters waiting outside my office for advance copies of the Town Hall address.”

The joke does its job.

Axe moves them on to the insurance lobby and the President looks back at the briefing notes in his lap.

Dan lets out a long, shaky breath. Fate is definitely lending him a hand. Maybe, just maybe, he can do this.

***

The first time Dan slips up, he's at brunch in Georgetown. The President is at a fundraiser in Georgia and the handful of staffers lucky enough to stay behind are all celebrating that, barring a national emergency, they're off the clock for a full 24 hours. 

Mimosas are flowing and, after fending off a few questions about Sarah’s whereabouts - “how's she enjoying the new gig?” and “when’s she coming back to visit?” - Dan settles back into his chair, feeling loose and comfortable for one of the first times in the months since Sarah left.

It's the looseness, he thinks later, or maybe the fourth mimosa as his elbow, that makes him careless. He reaches for the ketchup bottle and, before he realizes it's ash grey color, he's poured it over half his plate.

“Is that how they eat eggs in Delaware?” Jon asks, as if Dan hasn’t watched him pour maple syrup on his ham and cheese sandwiches in Vermont and cheese curds on his chili in Milwaukee. Before Dan can answer, though, he’s already leaning over Dan’s plate and cutting himself a taste. He purses his lips. “Not terrible, but, not what I would have chosen.”

“Good thing you didn’t choose it, then,” Dan tells him, over the fierce beating of his heart. He cuts himself a piece, tasting it gingerly. Fuck, mustard. “It's a Delawarean delicacy. Anyone wanna try?”

“Fuck, no,” Alyssa shivers, as Tommy scrunches his nose.

Dan chuckles, tightening his shoulders as he cuts his eggs into little pieces and slides the bulk of them into his napkin. 

He stops at McDonald’s on the way home.

***

As winter slides into spring, the trees on Dan's street sprout vibrant green leaves and grey-pink blossoms on taupe trunks. 

He notices them on a cool, early morning in April, as the sun is just rising over his commute, but he can't remember the last time the taupe was the nuanced shades of brown bark and green moss that Dan can just remember them being last spring.

He's still thinking about the trees when Jon meets him in the communications bullpen, already holding out a thin manilla folder. “A draft of the immigration speech for the California trip.”

Dan takes it, frowning as he flips it open. “We don’t go to California ‘til next month.”

Jon rubs at the back of his neck. “I met with a few Congressional aides last week and they intimated that the earlier we run the Dream Act by Congress, the better. Thought I’d get a head start on it while things were relatively quiet.”

“Hey.” Dan hits his shoulder with the folder. “You know better than to say things like that. Turn three times and spit.”

Jon holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, but I'm not doing that.” He shakes his head, laughing a little. “Hey, did you, ahh, get dressed in the dark this morning?”

“What?” Dan glances down at his plaid shirt, some of his good humor seeping away. “Why?”

“Nothing, just-” Jon shrugs. “Checks and stripes together is a bold choice for someone who’s sense of fashion is the same Kerr-Popovich t-shirt over and over and over and over and-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dan chuckles, holding up his hands. “I get it.”

“Dan?” His secretary pokes her head around the corner. “Senior Staff in 3.”

“Saved by the neverending calendar of meetings.” Dan holds up the folder. “I’ll read this after Staff, but if North Korea runs a nuclear test by noon, it’s on you.”

“For tempting the Gods high on top the hill or whatever, yeah, I know.” Jon chuckles, waving him away. “Superstitious asshole.”

Dan goes. And after Staff, he does start to read Jon’s speech, even though it's a few weeks and, most likely, as many crises too early.

He's mostly done when Alyssa knocks on his door and enters before he can usher her in. She holds up a cardboard take-out container. “I ordered you the soup and salad combo. Which-” She holds off his complaint with one perfectly raised eyebrow. “-is much better for your health. And I got you ranch, so, no bitching.”

“Thanks,” Dan says, dryly, as he joins her on his couch. “I think.”

“None of us are getting any younger.” She shifts, opening her own container. “And I couldn't do the button on my favorite pants this morning, so, I think we all should suffer that indignity.”

“Aren't _those_ your favorite pants?”

She glances down and shrugs. “You can't tell, can you?”

Dan squints at her waist, then feels stupid about it and averts his eyes. “No.”

“Well, then, no one's the wiser and I still get to be comfortable all day,” she grins, smugly.

Dan chuckles, shaking his head. He stabs at a piece of thankfully-Ranch-drenched lettuce and drops it halfway to his mouth. “Shit.”

Alyssa hands him a napkin. “You're a human disaster.”

Dan hums in agreement as he dabs at the stain on his tie, remembering Jon’s earlier comment. “Hey,” he says, carefully. “What color is this tie?”

“Do I look like someone who keeps up with Nordstrom's fashion trends?” She points her fork at him. “I don't know, powder blue?”

He lets out the breath he's been holding since before Staff-

“With, like, a powder blue satin stripe?”

-and catches it again.

“Why? Is this one of those stupid bets? Did Favs win?”

Dan swallows, says, “yes, no, and what, are you rooting for him?” reaching for light and casual and falling at least a couple notches short.

“You owe me enough drinks already.” Alyssa frowns at him. “Hey, you okay? You look a little-”

“I'm fine,” Dan says, quickly. “It's just my hunger, protesting this box of rabbit food you're feeding me.”

She purses her lips, but let’s him change the subject.

***

The third time Dan slips up is just under a month later, on the morning they leave for California.

The President meets them outside the Oval. “Dan, Jon, come in, just the men I wanted to see,” he says, waving them in. “I’m looking for that red folder you showed me earlier, with the talking points on immigration reform.”

Dan glances down at the stack of folders in his hands, fanning them out so he can read the edges of the labels. He grabs the one that says ‘reform’ and hands it over. “Good thing I’ve been carrying these around all morning.”

“Thanks.” POTUS takes the folder, then pauses. “This is tax reform.”

Jon frowns. “Also, green.”

Dan flushes as he takes the folder back. “Been a long morning,” he tries, as he flips through the other folders and carefully finds the one labeled ‘tax reform.’ He hands it over.

Three times, Dan’s father used to tell him, is a quorum. If the way Jon is looking at him is any indication, that adage holds true.

“Better get some sleep. We leave for LA at 9 pm sharp,” the President orders.

Dan smirks, ignoring Jon’s eyes on the back of his neck. “We’ll see about that, sir.”

***

LA smells like sunshine and car exhaust. It's noticeably greyer than it was just a couple of months ago - grey-green palm trees and cool grey ocean water framing the always-slate colored buildings downtown. It’s also significantly warmer, too warm for the suit and tie Dan’s wearing for the President’s immigration speech. He stands at the back, fanning himself with a rolled up program and trying not to be too obvious about it. He's absolutely certain he's failing.

“I love LA,” Jon sighs, next to him. He’s wearing metal-rimmed sunglasses, pushed too far up his nose. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his forearms DC-pale even to Dan’s cooling eyes.

“LA,” Dan raises a critical eyebrow, “does not love you back.”

“Oh, come on,” Jon protests, as he scuffs his polished dress shoes against the ground. The dirt sticks to the sweating leather. Next time they come to California, Dan’s going to insist that all speeches are held indoors. “I could fit in here. If I tried. Buy a closet full of American Apparel t-shirts and Vans sneakers.”

“If it was 1998.” Dan unbuttons his top button, where it’ll be hidden by the knot of his tie. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

Jon glances down at his watch. “He’s running over because he's extrapolating in the C section. I knew he was going to-” Jon sighs. “The crowd is getting antsy. I’ve lost them.”

“POTUS has lost them,” Dan says, without thinking about it, before correcting, “no, you’re right, you’ve lost them.”

Jon sighs, pushing his sleeves further up his elbows. They slip down again immediately.

On stage, the President is finally wrapping up. The crowd erupts with more applause than it deserves, and Jon scowls as Dan nods toward the door so they make their exit before the crowd swallows them.

“Pretty good,” POTUS says, as they meet him outside the motorcade, “for 90 degrees in May.”

“Sure,” Jon agrees. “A little extrapolating in the C section, but-”

“Caught that, did you?”

“Yeah.” Jon’s shoulders tighten. “I caught that.”

“Well, a President’s prerogative,” POTUS chuckles, as the secret service tries to usher him into the car. “Go, have fun. I don't want to hear from either of you until tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dan nods.

“You too, sir,” Jon says, at the same time.

“I’ll be at two DCCC fundraisers,” POTUS argues, as he ducks into the car, bending his head so he doesn’t hit the roof, “but thank you for the sentiment.”

Dan chuckles, and then wraps his hand around the back of Jon’s neck. There's a taxi idling for them next to the motorcade, Tommy and Alyssa already inside, ready to take them to West Hollywood and a much-deserved twelve hours off.

***

Andy’s waiting at a long, refurbished wooden table in the back of a low-lit small plates Mexican place. The table’s already groaning with stone bowls of guacamole and pitchers of margaritas and Andy’s careful not to knock anything over as he rises to great them.

“Show off,” Jon ribs, pulling Andy into a one-armed hug. “You do know we have pretentious tapas in DC, too.”

Andy laughs. “It was Lovett’s choice. Wanted to put WeHo’s best foot forward,” then adding, unnecessarily, “he's running late,” as his pulls Tommy into a real hug.

“Not news,” Tommy rolls his eyes as he clasps Andy’s shoulder. “Hey brother.”

Jon and Tommy slide into the bench across from Andy, Jon’s shoulders already loosening as Tommy rests his wide right hand on Jon’s thigh. Dan slides in after them, ducking his head under the Edison bulbs hanging low from the ceiling.

Alyssa already has the margaritas under control, pouring them a first round and then a second before Lovett finally arrives. He's rushed, his face a little flushed as he skids to a stop at their table and falls into the chair across from Dan, pulling his leg up under his hip as he apologizes. “Sorry, sorry, I know I'm late, but, I had to come all the way from the Valley, and at least I come with things to celebrate?”

Andy’s back straightens. “They liked it?”

Lovett grins. “I mean, they have a shit ton of notes and I had to fight pretty hard on a few character things, but,” Lovett shrugs, “they gave us a 10 episode series order.”

The table erupts in congratulations. Lovett smiles, soft and small in the dim lights over their heads. Dan hasn’t seen him since the SOTU in January, when he had looked pretty much the same as he had when he left DC only a few months before. Now, though, almost 9 months into his coastal change, he looks different. Brighter, fuller, easier with his smile, his cheeks rounder and flushed a rose-tinted grey that Dan has never seen before, not before he got his colors and certainly not in the months since he’s started to lose them again.

Dan thinks about it as Jon and Tommy dive into a series of intricate questions about the development process. Jon hasn’t said much - intimations about ‘life after the White House’ and worries that ‘Tommy’s looking tired’ and absently questioning whether his talent could ‘transition to Hollywood? A feature film, maybe? If I stay in my lane, if I keep it about politics-’ - but Dan’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a few months.

Dan doesn't have that impulse, but he can’t blame Jon. Not while they’re sitting here, surrounded by beautiful, rested people who define success not by how early they woke up or how many feet stand between their office and the Oval, but by how many seats they fill at the Box Office or how many times they can get a rapt audience to laugh in 23 minutes. 

Not when Dan looks at Andy, tan and fit and never-haunted by long nights in the Situation Room. Long nights that, Dan suspects, will always sit in the creases around Tommy’s eyes, no matter how wide his grin is or how many buttons he undoes at his neck. Not when Dan looks at Jon, his eyes bright as they watch Tommy laugh, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the long wooden table, as if he’s already writing screenplays in his head. He’s been editing Lovett’s scripts for months, his laughter carrying all the way down the hallway from his office. Lovett, who’s soft and comfortable in a zip-up hoodie and grey-green shorts and appalling Nikes, dropping his chin into his palm, embarrassed by the speed and depth of his success in a career he’s always been too anxious to want.

Not when Dan, himself, is bone-achingly tired. Has been for months, since long before Sarah walked out the door, taking his colors and his plans for a post-White House future with her. Tired of his four a.m. alarm. Tired of the thousands of Tweets he reads daily, full of uninspired takes on the debt ceiling and pre-existing conditions and tax incentives for the auto industry. Tired of reminding the President - a President he respects more than anyone he’s ever worked for or with or around - that he needs not to get bogged down in the swamp of Washington and, instead, take his message directly to the people who elected him.

He blames his exhaustion on the amount of time it takes for him to notice that their waiter is trying to place his tray at Dan’s elbow. “Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling his hand into his lap. The waiter rolls his eyes and leaves their next round of margaritas for Dan to distribute.

“Fucking West Hollywood,” Lovett rolls his eyes, good-naturedly, grabbing his from the pool.

Jon leans around Tommy, holding out his hand. “Mine’s the strawberry.”

Dan glances at the glasses. They’re varying shades of grey. He blames that, too, on the exhaustion. “Which one?”

Jon tilts his head, saying, slowly, “the one that looks like it’s strawberry.”

Lovett drops his arm to the table, tapping subtly at one of the stems with his finger. Dan lets out a deep, shuddering breath, grabbing the glass and passing it down.

Jon takes it, frowning. “What is going on with you? You’ve been- strange, for months now.”

Dan freezes. Three strikes, he’s known he only gets three strikes, and he’s been holding his breath for this moment since he fucked up with those folders over 24 hours ago. If he’s really honest with himself, he’s been holding his breath for six months, since Sarah walked out the door and put his job in jeopardy. Not that- Dan’s sure the President wouldn’t fire him. Couldn’t, legally, under anti-discrimination laws. But, there’s no denying that his job is exponentially harder now, and the White House is hellish even on employees with every advantage.

Even with how exhausted he is, though, the White House is all he has left. A bright spot in the continuing greying of the world around him.

So, he straightens his back, reaches for deadpan and lands somewhere around jackass. “Thank you, Favreau. ‘Strange’ is such an evocative term to use on your boss.”

“I didn’t mean-” Jon raises his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t- we’re just worried, man. I didn’t mean to push.”

“‘We?’” Dan asks, glancing around the table. Tommy clenches his fist where it’s resting on Jon’s thigh. Across from them, Alyssa shrugs, her eyes dark and grey behind her glasses. She pushes her hair behind her ear. “Shit, I’m not giving in to the White House rumor mill. If you all need more to do, I can certainly find something.”

He pushes back from the table, folding his napkin and dropping it next to his plate. His hands are shaking as he pulls out his wallet, throwing a couple of $20s by Tommy’s hand.

“Air Force One takes off at 9 tomorrow. If you’re a minute late, we’re leaving without you.” 

LA is more sinister after dark. The sun set hours ago, leaving behind long, dark silhouettes of palm trees and empty parking lots, broken only by fences and the giant M of the McDonald’s down the street. It’s also exponentially cooler and Dan shivers, rubbing at his upper arms as he stops outside the restaurant, resting his head back against the stucco and taking a few, deep breaths.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, contemplating calling a cab, before Lovett comes out, struggling to do up his hoodie one-handed. He has both their phones clutched in his other and, as he nears, he holds Dan’s out. “Thought the Secret Service might come looking for this.”

Dan pats his front pocket, but, Jesus, his phone isn’t there. He’s never left it behind before. His head feels heavy and dizzy as he takes it. “Thanks.”

Lovett shrugs. “I remember what it was like, being without it.”

Dan raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, you can’t be that surprised,” Lovett chuckles. “I lost it all the fucking time. There was one time, I thought I’d left it at Secrets. Dragged Jon back there the next morning and, let me tell you, you do not want to see the floor of a club in daylight. He never told you?”

Dan shakes his head.

“Huh. I always thought he would and you were just being, I don’t know, kind by not reaming my ass for it.” Lovett shrugs. “Anyways, turns out it was at Target. I’d left it in the board game aisle.”

Despite himself, Dan laughs. “I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear any of this.”

“You can’t fire me anymore.”

“True.” Dan holds up his phone. “But I still have a direct line to the FBI.”

“If the FBI doesn’t have anything better to do-” Lovett shrugs, turning so he can lean against the wall next to Dan. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he digs at the gravel with the toes of his sneakers. “You couldn’t see the red back there.”

It’s not a question, but Dan nods, letting his eyes slide closed. “Sarah left me,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it, and his voice breaks a little on _me_. “I’ve been losing my colors for almost a year.”

Lovett sucks in a breath. “Jon doesn’t know?”

“No one knows.” Dan pushes back from the wall, opening his eyes and blinking until the grey landscape comes into focus. “You should go back in, enjoy the rest of the evening. I’m gonna grab a cab and head back to the hotel.”

Lovett shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but tapas always leaves me hungry. There’s another Mexican place a few blocks away. Less ambiance but much bigger portions.”

Dan takes a deep breath but he doesn’t move.

“You work with dumbasses,” Lovett continues, rolling his eyes. “But if you’re this sloppy, even they’re going to figure it out sooner rather than later. Come on, I have twenty-nine years of coping mechanisms I can share.”

He smiles, but it’s all sharp edges around a nervous twist. That, more than anything else, convinces Dan to fall into step next to him.

***

The next morning, Dan wakes up with a crick in his neck and the sun pouring in through Lovett’s ratty blinds. The couch is lumpy and uneven under his back, and he groans.

“Sleep well?” Lovett asks. He’s just stepped out of the shower, his curls dripping water down his neck in light grey rivulets, darkening the collar of his t-shirt. 

“Not really,” Dan admits, as he rolls to his feet. “You need a new couch. And blinds. And-” He glances at the carpet under his toes. It’s stringy and a little bit sticky. “A whole new apartment, maybe?”

Lovett chuckles. “It’s temporary. Just until I can cash in that first NBC paycheck. Did you know how underpaid we are in politics?”

Dan laughs, as he makes his way into the bathroom, “everyone knows that,” and closes the door behind him.

He takes a quick shower and pulls on his clothes from last night over a pair of tight-but-clean briefs Lovett lets him borrow. He glances at himself for a moment in the mirror. His thinning hair, which is looking greyer by the day regardless of his colors. The thick lines around his mouth. He reaches up to trace the deep, charcoal divots under his eyes, his wedding ring catching in the flickering light above the vanity.

He looks at it for a long moment, then slides it off. He opens the cupboard above the sink and drops the ring next to Lovett’s contact solution and the still-sealed curl creams.

“You need to change the lightbulb in here,” he calls. The skin around his ring finger is soft and pale ivory, but it feels looser and lighter.

“I’ll call the landlord,” Lovett calls back.

***

“The top one?” Lovett quizzes, as he drives them to the airport. 

The passenger side mirror is held on with duct tape, and Dan peers around it to look at the traffic light. With Lovett’s coaching over the last twelve hours, he can make out the hints of red in the grey of the top light. “Red.”

Lovett’s eyes narrow. “You’re just guessing. Because I’m stopped.”

Dan turns his head to look at Lovett’s profile, all round curves and easy smile and dark, coppery curls. “With anyone else, that would be a fair assumption. But-” He motions at the duct tape. “You have proven that the rules of the road do not apply to you.”

“I don’t know whether I should be offended,” Lovett mutters, as the light turns grey-green and he pulls forward and into the private section of LAX, “or proud of everything I’ve taught you.”

“If you take the high road-”

“Then, what? You’ll get to DC before me?” Lovett snorts as he pulls the car to a stop. “You can have it.”

Dan hums, glancing out at Air Force One, large and so intimidating at this close proximity. “Hey, ahh, thanks. I’d been- the last few months haven’t been easy, and I’d kinda forgotten about what matters. So, thanks, for showing me the error of my ways.”

Lovett’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, but he’s smiling as he turns to look at Dan. “Anytime you need to be dropped down a peg or two, I’m your guy.”

Dan chuckles. “I appreciate it.”

He gets out of the car and meets Jon at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey,” Jon greets, squinting into the sun, a little, worried frown on his face as he greets Dan. “Is that Lovett?”

“Yeah.” Dan holds up a bag. “We made a detour on the way in.”

Jon takes it gingerly, but when he looks inside at the selection of American Apparel shirts, he grins, laughing so hard that he doubles over.

Dan chuckles. “I, ahh, thought they might be useful. In your next step.”

Jon sobers, and Dan can read everything he already knew in the set of Jon’s shoulders. “Yeah. Thanks, man, this is- Thank you.”

Dan clasps his shoulder and they head up the gangplank.

As Jon continues on to find Tommy, Dan stops next to his normal seat. Alyssa’s already there, a blanket over her knees and a pillow pressed between her head and the window. She looks up at him, the pillow falling to the ground.

“I lost my colors,” Dan says, in a rush. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you- I’ve been embarrassed. And worried for my job. But, my head not being on straight is not an excuse for being the terrible friend I’ve been.”

She blinks at him for a long, terrifying moment. His hands are shaking with nerves and he wishes he had thought to bring her an apology gift, too.

But then she lifts onto her knees, reaching out so she can punch his arm. “We tell each other all the big things, remember?”

“Yeah.” Dan feels something thick and months-old unfurl in his chest. He falls into the seat next to her, kicking his bag under the seat on front of him. “Yeah,” he breathes, “okay.”

She turns her body, settling her hips over her feet and angling her body towards him. She molds the pillow to his shoulder and rests her head there. “Don't move,” she orders.

He chuckles, opening a briefing book in his lap. “Wouldn't dream of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Don't you have a date tonight?" Alyssa asks, leaning in his doorway and wrapping her sweater tighter around her waist. She looks cozy and settled in for the evening, and Dan resents her for it.

"Don't play coy," he chastises her. "You know very well that I both have a date and that it's very much unwanted."

She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "It's been six months since you took the ring off and it's time to get back out there. No more dawdling in this small, dank office."

"This office," Dan corrects, "is one of the best offices in the West Wing. It also houses all the work that I still have to do tonight."

Alyssa glances at her watch. "Kathy is a fan of punctuality."

"What does she want with a political staffer, then?"

Alyssa rolls her eyes. "Dan."

"Alyssa." He sighs, tapping his finger against the stack of binders on his desk and trying one last ditch effort. "There's a bottle of wine and a whole DVD of Sports Night episodes in it for you if you cancel for me."

"Tempting." She pretends to think for a moment, then crosses to his wardrobe and pulls out the clean shirt and tie he leaves there for extreme circumstances. "But, no. You need to do this. And you need to change, you've been wearing that shirt since five am."

Dan sighs, but he pushes his chair back and motions for her to close the door. She starts to, and he glares at her. "With you on the other side."

She sighs. "Fine, but, if I find out you stood her up-"

"I won't, I won't." He promises, already loosening his tie. "I'm not that much of an asshole."

She purses her lips for a moment. "With the way you've been acting lately? Can't be too cautious. "She takes a step backwards. "And, who knows? You might even get laid. I know the staff would be awfully grateful."

"Get out."

"Might even send Kathy a fruit basket."

"Leave me, woman." 

She laughs, taking the last step back and letting the door shut behind her. Dan takes a moment to breath deeply through his nose, then purposefully closes the speech he was editing, and reaches for the clean shirt.

***

Dan's only a few minutes late, but Kathy's already waiting at the bar, her long, stockinged legs crossed. Her nails are long and a dark, charcoal grey around the cocktail stick in her martini.

She eyes him up and down when he enters and he gets the distinct impression that she's measuring the width of his tie and the taper of his waist. He closes the top button on his jacket and introduces himself, feeling self-conscious and unprepared.

She must like what she sees, though, because she gathers her jacket and follows him to their table. She flirts like she's done this a lot, but she's also smart and thoughtful and she engages him on ACA and immigration reform. She's a lawyer for Planned Parenthood and she's full of Alyssa stories from college.

"She was wearing a flannel pajama top under her overalls," Kathy laughs, her long, slender wrist reaching out for her glass. "She never forgot to pay the electric bill again."

"I am never going to let her live that down," Dan promises.

"Oh, don't tell her I told you." She reaches out, touching his wrist, smile still sly and flushed. "She'll kill me."

"I can't just let that sit." He shakes his head, leaning a little across the table. "But, I might just be able to make it up to you."

She raises her eyebrow and, as the waiter comes by to offer them another round, she slides her foot against his ankle. "Just the check, please?"

It's a question, for him, and he takes a moment to clear the fog in his head before he nods. "Yes, just the check, please."

His hands are shaking a little as he pays the bill and follows Kathy out to her car. It's a fairly short drive to her place, and she waits until the door is closed before she pushes close, touches his wrist again, asks for more.

She keeps the lights off as she turns her back to him, asking him to unzip the grey-gold zipper on her light grey dress. Her back is long and smooth, all pale muscles and taupe skin. She turns around and he can see her flush, a darker, rose-tinted shade of grey spreading down, past the fragile hollow of her long neck, across her ribs and down her stomach. 

He traces it with his finger, fascinated by the color, pausing just above the waistband of her black, lace panties. She sighs, the hollow of her stomach moving against his hand, and she pulls him into a kiss.

She tastes like olives and she smells like expensive perfume. She's strong and powerful and he feels himself respond to it, just a little, twitching in his boxers.

But then her hands fall expertly to the buttons on his shirt. He glances over as she pushes it off his shoulders, her grey fingers against his grey skin, and his mouth tastes like ash to match.

She smiles, all white teeth and charcoal lipstick, a teasing light in her blue grey eyes as she dances her fingertips against his belt. He's soft again, aggressively obstinate against his thigh, and he pushes her to the bed, hooks his index fingers into the lace at her hips and distracts her with a dangerous smile of his own.

He tries not to look at the long lines of her light grey thighs or the patch of charcoal hair between them as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her up and close. He spreads her wide, getting his bearings among her grey folds quickly, then closes his eyes and lowers his mouth to her. 

This, at least, is the same. She's wet and fragrant and insistent, her fingers tight around his ears. Her hands tug and pull, and she shimmies her hips until he's exactly where she wants him to be, then she drops her head back to the pillow with a little sigh.

She's quiet, the only noises in the room the slight catches in her breath and the wet sounds of his tongue. It's loud in his ears and he's just wishing they had thought to put some music on when she gasps, her fingers digging painfully into his scalp. He slides his tongue inside her, letting go of her thigh to press his thumb against her clit and she keens.

He slits his eyes open, glancing up her grey-flushed body to the arch of her back and the heaving of her breasts. Her thighs close in against his ears, shaking wildly for a moment as she groans, long and hard, and then her body falls, quietly, back to the mattress.

She sighs, "fuck, that was good," her body long and loose and satisfied as she lets her knees fall open. He sits up, reaching for his shirt so he can wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Her smile is small and promising, her pupils a dark, dilated grey as she reaches out, dragging her hand across his hip.

"I-" Dan's hands catch in his dress shirt. "I have a really early day tomorrow."

She frowns, stroking up his side but then, as he doesn't respond, she sits up, drawing her knees to her chest. "You don't want to-" She motions to his lap, where he's still barely hard under the ball of his shirt.

"Next time," he promises, meaning none of it and hating himself a little for it. He stands, reaching for his jacket and sliding it over his undershirt. "I had fun."

Her mouth twists, and he knows she isn't buying it. "Yeah," she says, slowly, "I did, too," meaning it less than she would have, just a few moments before.

"I'll, ahh, let myself out." 

She doesn't protest and he doesn't look back as he finds his way, gingerly, through her dark apartment.

It's not even midnight yet, but the fall air is cool and Dan takes a moment to breath deeply. He leans his head back against the door, his eyes slipping closed against the greyscale of the trees, and tries to pull his mind away from Kathy's dark bedroom and her light-grey thighs and the steel grey of her eyes and-

His phone rings, and he fishes his blackberry out of his pocket, grateful for the distraction. "Pfeiffer."

"I don't know what kind of operation you're running over there-"

Despite himself, Dan grins, pushing away from the door. His car is still at the restaurant, and he starts walking in that direction. "Hi, Lovett. How's LA?"

"Sweaty," Lovett complains. "Do you know how much the Post Office sucks? I just stood in line for forty-five minutes - _forty five_ minutes I'll never get back - staring at the remake of the Sacagawea stamp-"

"Sacagawea played an important part in our nation's history," Dan argues. "And she's just inoffensive enough that three members of the Commerce committee, a handful of academics, a multimedia artist - whatever that is - the Postmaster General, and Denis could all agree on her."

"Sacagawea is fine. She's not gonna, like, break the fucking diversity bank or anything, but-" Lovett cuts himself off. "Sacagawea isn't really the point. _The point_ is that you sent me ten heavy Bankers Boxes. I came home from grabbing lunch and there was one of those obnoxious little sticky notes summoning me to the Post Office-"

"They're 10 boxes of classified documents. I wasn't going to snail mail them to your fucking door."

"-and then _I_ had to load them into my car and then unload them into my house." Lovett sighs dramatically and Dan can hear the sound of Lovett's refrigerator as he fills a cup with ice. "My arms feel like Gumby."

"A small price to pay to help the President write the most important speech of the year."

Lovett snorts. "The SOTU is the most important speech like DC is the most important town in America."

"DC is the most important town in America," Dan argues, as he reaches his car. "For some people. Hey, I've gotta go, but my secretary was supposed to book your ticket for January?"

"Yeah, she sent me the confirmation. I have it somewhere-" 

There's the rustling of papers and Dan chuckles. "Don't worry about it. Just text me your arrival time when you find it."

"Sure, sure. Along with the expense report for the physical therapy for all the arm pain I'm in."

"I'm hanging up now," Dan tells him and, before Lovett can argue, he does. He slides into his car, tightening his hands on the steering wheel for a long moment as he allows the night with Kathy to slip away in favor of the smile threatening to take its place.

***

Alyssa's at his door when he gets in the next morning, half an hour late and his eyes still sleep-crusty and a little sore. His feet catch, but then he rights himself and, despite every better judgement in his body, continues towards her.

"Carpet snake get you?" She asks.

"Something like that," he agrees, as he unlocks his door and lets her in. The stack of binders are still waiting for him, exactly where he left them the night before. "So, I, ahh, take it you've already talked to Kathy. If you could apologize for me-"

"From what I hear, you have nothing to be sorry for." Dan's head shoots up and Alyssa's eyes are sparkling. "She sang your praises."

"Oh." Dan rests his hip against his desk, frowning. "She, ahh, she did?"

Alyssa rolls her eyes, chuckling a little as she shakes her head. "This level of deprecation isn't attractive, even for you." She drops the President's daily schedule on his desk. "Senior staff in 5."

"Yeah." Dan rubs at his eyes, picking up the schedule and scanning it.

Alyssa pauses at the door. "And if you wanna tell me details, there's a beer with your name on it at Dubliner later."

"That is not going to happen," he promises her.

She shrugs, "hey, a girl's gotta try," as she leaves.

***

Dan's blackberry pings halfway through an emergency meeting with the NSA messaging team. 

He glances down at the alert and Tommy leans over. "New development?"

Dan shakes his head. "Lovett's flight just arrived. I was gonna-" Dan shrugs. When Lovett had called the night before to check on the details and complain about having to buy a winter wardrobe for the snowstorm blanketing DC, Dan had warned him that this might happen,. "He can expense a cab."

"Jon and I were planning to take him to dinner at that new place in Logan. The woodfired pizza place. Have you tried it?"

Dan shakes his head. "I hear you can only order wine by the bottle, though."

Tommy waggles his eyebrows. "Exactly."

"If you have something to share with the class," Denis calls down the table, "then, please, by all means, do so."

Tommy flushes, the long lines of his neck blazing in a light, rosy shade of quartz. "Sorry, sir."

Dan chuckles, crossing his ankle over his knee under the table. "I was sharing my opinions on regional pizza options. If that's something everyone would be interested in, I'd be happy to share. I have many."

Denis' stomach growls audibly, and he shuts his binder. "On that note, it's clearly lunchtime. Tommy, work with Dan's team to draft a statement, and share it with the team by two."

Tommy nods, "will do."

***

The statement is finalized and passed onto the press team by seven, and Dan and Tommy sneak out of the office the moment Jay starts his final press briefing of the day.

Dan leaves his phone face-up on the table, ready to answer if necessary, but he doesn't hesitate to start them off with two bottles of a middling red. Tommy swirls the tester pour in his glass and tastes it, nodding at the waiter. "It's good."

Dan chuckles. "You have no idea what you're actually doing, do you?"

Tommy leans closer. "Honestly? No. But don't tell Jon- I have a reputation to uphold."

Dan shakes his head, accepting his own glass from their waiter and not bothering to swirl it before taking a long, soothing sip. "Your secret's safe."

Tommy looks at his glass, thoughtfully. "Does it taste different?"

"From?"

"From when you could see it." Tommy's shoulders tighten, and he sits back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"It's fine." Dan assures him, a little surprised by how much he means it. "It's not- For a while there, everything was just different shades of black, but now I can see the streaks of red and pink."

"Huh." Tommy squints at his glass, like he's trying to see beyond the vibrant reds and yellows and blues that have been assaulting his senses since he was barely able to drink.

Dan knows Tommy. He knows how easily Tommy will drag this down into a pity Dan doesn't want or deserve, not tonight, not after a full day of talking about Afghanistan and the press punditry around even an issue as non-partisan as the lives of American troops. So, he takes a long sip, and adds, "I still can't eat broccoli, though."

Tommy's thoughtful expression smooths into the pull of a smile, his shoulders softening as he throws his head back with laughter. 

"No fair, telling all the good jokes before I get here," Lovett grouses from behind them. He's wearing a thick, North Face puffy coat that swallows him whole, but there are snowflakes clinging to his bare curls and his fingers are freezing as he presses a hand to Dan's shoulder in greeting.

He looks good. His cheeks are flushed, his face wider than it was in May, stretched into a grin at just the idea of a joke, and Dan feels something pull at this chest that he hasn't felt in over a year.

"It wasn't actually that funny," he promises.

"Tommy's just easy," Jon agrees, as he leans down to press a quick kiss to Tommy's smile, murmuring, "hey, babe," before taking the seat next to him and greeting the whole table. "Sorry we're late."

"I'd forgotten how much of a slave driver Jon is," Lovett frowns good-naturedly, laying blame where blame is due. He drapes his jacket over the back of his chair, sliding one leg under himself so that his foot lands dangerously close to Dan's thigh under the table, and pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. He reaches immediately for the wine, pouring himself a generous glass with wrists that are a tantalizing shade of pale, porcelain grey.

Jon rolls his eyes. “You nodded off halfway through a budget meeting."

"I’d forgotten how mundane the White House really is.” Lovett nudges at the edge of his glasses as he leans over his menu. He traces the options with his index finger, the muscles of his shoulder pulling tight under his sweater. “We’re gonna share, right?”

Tommy waves for their waiter, as he says, “we can’t all be famous screenwriters.”

“Honestly,” Lovett takes a long sip of his wine and reaches for the bottle again, “budget meetings aren’t any more thrilling when you’re talking about set designs or actor salaries. Although, we do have a line item for candy in the writers’ room. That was my doing.” 

Jon chuckles. “Of course it was.”

“Sugar is an important fuel for writing. An idea,” Lovett eyes him, “it might be good for you to avail yourself of.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.”

“Your staff will thank me.” Lovett raises his glass. “To the mundanity of Hollywood and DC.”

Dan knocks his glass against Lovett’s, sharing the small, slightly shy smile Lovett gives him before the waiter drops their first pizza into the middle of the table and forces them both to sit back and make room.

Dan loses track of time as they work their way through a third bottle of wine and the third pizza they end up ordering as they exchange stories of Lovett’s new NBC-provided assistant and Tommy’s latest run in with the Slovenian ambassador. Dan’s not sure he's laughed this hard for years, since long before his bond had started to fade, and his chest is aching a little by the time Jon waves for the bill.

Lovett yawns, wide and open, and Tommy chuckles at him as he offers, “our place is just around the corner, and the guest room is open.”

Lovett shrugs, pushing back his chair and reaching for his jacket. “All my shit’s at the hotel, I'll just grab a cab.”

“Offer’s open anytime,” Jon tells him, as they head outside. He pulls Lovett into as much of a hug as Lovett will suffer, then pulls away and reaches a gloved hand out for Tommy’s. “Night, get some sleep- we have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Lovett rolls his eyes and Tommy mirrors him, tugging on Jon’s hand. “I apologize for him,” he calls, waving behind him as they walk away.

Dan raises a hand, ready to wave down a cab for Lovett, but then Lovett asks, softly, “your place is just a few blocks away, too, yeah?”

Dan drops his arm, slowly, turning to see Lovett looking at him, all wide, taupe eyes and rose-flushed cheeks, any trace of his red-eye and long day gone.

Dan swallows and nods in the opposite direction of Jon and Tommy. “About ten minutes.”

“Lead the way,” Lovett orders, the waver in his voice and the twitch of his shoulders belaying the confidence of his words.

Dan swallows. “You're sure?” He asks, because even though he's been pretty sure that their months of more-than-weekly phone calls have been leading here, it still feels impossible, unsure, certainly not inevitable that they'd make it here, under the white of the street lights and the gentle snow, with Lovett looking at him with the full intensity he turns on anything he truly cares about.

“We're gonna have to work on this crisis of confidence thing you've got going on,” Lovett jokes, as he turns his feet in the direction of Dan’s apartment.

Dan falls into step beside him, hyper aware of Lovett’s body next to his, the way he scrunches his shoulders against the cold and digs his hands into his pockets. It feels like both an eternity and not nearly enough time before they’re outside Dan’s apartment. Dan’s hands are shaking as he gets his key into the lock, and then they’re inside, stripping out of their coats and their wet, salty shoes.

Lovett reaches up, pulling Dan’s woolen, bobbled Redskins hat from his head, saying “this is racist,” as he pushes into Dan’s space.

“I know,” Dan says, wetting his lips. “But I can’t help liking what I like.”

“‘Yeah.” Lovett slides a hand under Dan’s suit jacket, clutching at his crisp, white shirt and digging his fingers into Dan’s hips underneath. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Dan whispers, dropping his head, getting a good look at the planes of Lovett’s face, creased in more shades of grey than Dan can name, open and bright. Dan doesn’t close his eyes until the last possible moment.

Lovett’s mouth opens under him, tasting like wine and spicy sausage. He presses forward, his fingers just this side of painful where he’s clutching at Dan’s sides, using him for leverage as he lifts himself onto his toes so he can meet Dan, press his tongue into Dan’s mouth, taste the wine and the adrenaline on Dan’s own tongue and chase away all the lingering bitterness that’s already been dissipating over the past few weeks.

“Holy shit,” Dan whispers, when Lovett pulls back, dropping onto his heels and pulling Dan with him.

“Fuck,” Lovett agrees, his fingers warming and purposeful against the buttons of Dan’s shirt. “Bedroom?”

Dan shakes his head, clears the fog just long enough to take Lovett’s hands, pull him, sliding a little on their socked feet, into the dark of his bedroom. Lovett stops in front of the bed, grabbing at the hem of his sweater and lifting it over his head in one motion.

Dan doesn’t turn on the overhead light, but the moon is bright and full through the window of his third-floor walkup, and he doesn’t close the curtains. He squints through the yellow-tinged light of the moon, wanting to see every plane of Lovett’s body as he undresses. Lovett is all shades of grey, tinged through with pinks and blues and pale soft areas that are just this side of white, and Dan’s not sure he’s ever seen someone so beautiful.

“I’m feeling pretty naked here,” Lovett bemoans, crossing his arms across his chest, flushed from his neck all the way down his soft stomach and disappearing into his briefs, tight and stretched and hiding nothing of the effect Dan’s having on him.

Dan groans, feeling himself twitch and harden, pressing into the fly of his suit pants, straining towards another person for the first time in over a year. His hands are shaking as he finishes with the buttons Lovett’s already started on, pushing his shirt to the ground and dropping his pants to join the pile.

“Fuck,” Lovett repeats, as he lets Dan push him onto the bed, tracing his hand down Dan’s heaving chest and sliding under the waistband of his boxers. “You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs as he wraps his fingers around Dan’s length, his hand so small and soft, and Dan’s knees tremble as he struggles to hold himself over Lovett’s body.

Lovett chuckles, arching his back to meet Dan’s, raising his mouth for Dan’s. “You really shouldn’t hide all this under those suits. Or, maybe you should. It’s fucking obscene.”

Dan trembles in Lovett’s hand, pushing towards him, his hips stilted and unpracticed. Dan hasn’t focused on the way a body feels under him since college. Since before he knew what colors were and sex was the same drab, muted watercolor that the rest of his world was, and his partners burst alive in his other senses, in the way they smelled and the way they sounded when he touched them.

He’d forgotten that with Sarah, when the feel and the smell and the taste of her was buried under the way she looked to him. All pink skin and red painted nails and the dark patch of dirty blonde hair between her legs, the way her neck flushed when he entered her and the tan of her skin as she rose to meet him.

Lovett, though, is the full sensory experience. He’s a hard, muscled body, quivering towards Dan, straining and responsive under Dan’s hands. He’s soft hands and soft skin, warm and flushed and supple under Dan’s fingertips. He smells like sweat and arousal and too many days spent inside writing, and he tastes like the wine they’d shared. 

Lovett is more alive, even in tones of grey and sepia, than Dan ever remembers anyone being, and his own body responds in a way he never remembers it responding before.

When Lovett comes, it’s almost more than Dan’s senses can handle. It’s a long, low, overpowering groan, as his breath catches on Dan’s name, before it starts again, quick and hurried. It’s the smell of something sharp and masculine and it’s the feel of his thighs, shuddering around Dan’s head, his heels digging into Dan’s shoulder blades. It’s the taste of him, salty and sharp on Dan’s tongue. And it’s the sight of his face, a kaleidoscope of grey, expressive and flushed and more than a little awed as he gazes down his body at Dan, his chest heaving, laughing a little in pleasure.

"Fuck, if I'd known you were gonna be so good at that-" Lovett tightens his hands in the bristles of Dan's hair and urges him upwards.

"You would have - what? - manhandled me into a closet in the communications bullpen?” Dan asks, as he rises onto his forearms, stretching out along Lovett’s body and failing to suppress a groan as his own hardness brushes against the soft, warm divots of Lovett’s hips.

Lovett lifts his legs, his thighs still trembling a little as he digs his boney heels into the backs of Dan's thighs, creating a place for him to thrust. "Out of the closet, more like."

"Exhibitionist, huh?" Dan thrusts, once, tentatively, but Lovett arches his back, moaning a little even as his dick softens against Dan's thigh. Dan thrusts again. "I like that."

"A little danger never hurt anyone."

"Some might disagree."

Lovett smiles, wide and so open, and Dan fights against the instinct to close his eyes as the pressure builds, spreading through the tops of his thighs and across his abdomen. His arms tremble with the effort to hold himself up, to keep the steadiness of his rhythm, and then Lovett reaches down, sliding his hand between their bodies and swiping his thumb over the head of Dan’s dick.

Dan keens, throwing his head back, his knees weak and barely holding himself against the mattress. Lovett shakes his head, his heels digging in further, opening himself even wider. “You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, a little, in awe.

Dan hums, barely holding himself back from adding _only to you_ , because he doesn’t want to think about Sarah or about Kathy, is unable to, with Lovett under him, around him, against him.

Despite himself, he closes his eyes as he comes. His whole body shakes apart, and he shouts Lovett’s name before his breath hitches and he buries his forehead in Lovett’s collarbone. He bites a kiss there, until Lovett’s skin blooms in a mottled shade of purple-tinted charcoal.

“Shit.” Lovett twitches against Dan’s softening dick, over-sensitized and _so much_.

Dan lifts himself, with just enough energy to spread out against Lovett’s side. Lovett sighs, arching his back and stretching his arms over his head, before falling back against the mattress.

“Fair warning,” he murmurs, as his body melts back into the bed, just an inch or so between their bodies. “I took the redeye last night and you wore me out, so, my consciousness isn’t long for this world.”

Dan chuckles, reaching for the sheets and pulling them over them both. Lovett rolls, still keeping the bit of distance between them, but resting his palm, wide and warm and steadying, against Dan’s chest.

***

Lovett’s still lying face down in Dan’s pillows, his curls long and wild and dark in the low light filtering through the open curtains. Dan finishes doing up his belt and wraps his tie around his neck, his fingers stumbling a little when he sees Lovett’s eyes blink open.

“Morning,” Dan murmurs. “I got called in, but you should stay. I left the guest key in the kitchen so you can lock up.”

Lovett nods, balling the pillow under his head and asking, with just a little bit of the tentativeness he'd shown early the night before, “dinner tonight?”

Dan’s breath catches and he twitches in his boxers. “Yes,” then, “shit, no, I have a thing.”

Lovett flushes, an embarrassed taupe stretching across his bare shoulder blades. “It's cool, I’ll just-”

Dan slides his knee onto the bed, resting his hand on the back of Lovett’s neck, his skin soft and warm with sleep. “It shouldn't take too long. I'll call after.”

Lovett pushes into the touch, “cool cool cool,” and rolls onto his back, spreading his legs under the sheets to knock his knee against Dan’s. “Sure you don't have a few minutes?”

Dan looks down at Lovett’s hand on his thigh, and swallows. “I-” His blackberry rings and he sighs. “You have no idea how tempting that is,” he promises, sliding back and pulling out his phone. “Pfeiffer,” he answers, watching Lovett roll back into his pillows for a long, alluring moment, before he forces himself to leave.

***

“Pfeiffer, come on, man, even you can admit that Obama is butchering this.”

“President Obama,” Dan corrects, rubbing at his upper arm. It’s gone numb over the last half hour or so. A result, Dan has assumed, of the sheer stupidity of Washington journalists.

As he looks across the table, though, his vision blurs, contracting in spirals of grey and white around the edges of the swanky bar, and he tips sideways a little, only just catching himself on the edge of the thick oak table. He worries, for a moment, that this is the next step in losing his colors, but when he blinks, the Edison bulbs and tall martini glasses swim back into focus.

“President Obama, sure.” Josh of the Washington Post rolls his eyes. “I need another one. Anyone else?”

Dan’s head feels full and untethered, nausea rising in his throat, and he keeps his hold on the table with one hand as he waves Josh away. “Nah, I’m good. I’ve gotta run soon.”

By the time Josh is back, Dan’s entire left arm is numb and, even when he blinks, the bar is a watercolor in greyscale. He finishes his argument quickly, only waiting until all three journalists are nodding with him - if not in agreement, at least in understanding - before he pushes his stool back. His knees are a little wobbly.

“Sorry to bail, gentleman, but there are more important people waiting for me elsewhere.” Dan tries for breezy and thinks he reaches it, if their chuckles and ribbing goodbyes are anything to go by.

He waves quickly and only stumbles when he's outside the restaurant. He holds up a hand for a cab, leaning his weight against a light post as the world swirls and materializes and swirls again behind his dizzy eyes.

 _raincheck on drinks?_ he types out, then thinks about Lovett, warm and soft and so beautiful when Dan left him that morning, and adds, _nbd but headed to the hospital. i really did wanna do drinks_.

His taxi takes a sharp left on 14th and Dan’s stomach rolls. He shoves his phone into his pocket and closes his eyes.

***

“This is ridiculous.”

“Sorry, sir, but only family are allowed in after visiting hours. Mr. Pfeiffer’s paperwork doesn’t say anything about- Are you Mr. Pfeiffer’s soulmate?”

“I don't grant the premise of your question. Are you asking if I’m his soulmate? Are you asking if I'm family? I don’t have time to parse the meaning from your ambiguity.”

Dan blinks his eyes open. The room is dark, barely more than a mismatched collection of black and white shadows, but at least it’s not tipping the way it was before he fell asleep. There’s a needle in his left arm, trailing up to an IV of ash grey liquid - just saline, he hopes - and he’s wearing a paper-thin gown under the heavy hospital blanket.

His door is ajar, just barely wide enough for a person to slip inside, and Dan can just make out two shapes right outside his room.

“I- I’m not sure what you're getting at, sir,” the doctor says, as he clutches his clipboard in front of him.

“I’m saying that your rules are medieval and cruel and, frankly, I should get the ACLU down here. Or the Washington Post. The Washington Post is probably a better idea,” Lovett - even if Dan didn’t recognize Lovett’s voice, he’d recognize those hand movements anywhere - rants.

The doctor takes a step back and shifts his head to look down the hall. “I am sorry you feel that way, sir, but the rules are very clear. Only soulmates can visit after hours. If you’d like to come back tomorrow, visiting hours start at 9 and-”

“Fine, fine,” Lovett throws his hands in the air. “I’m his soulmate, okay?”

“Sir-”

“It’s new and we haven’t filed the paperwork yet. It’ll be filtering through your bureaucratic system in the next couple of days,” Lovett lies, so clearly that even the patients five doors down the hall have to know.

The doctor, though, seems to come to the same conclusion that so many in Lovett’s life have come to, and sighs, deeply, taking a step back. “Honestly, this is not worth my energy. If you wanna see your friend so bad, go ahead. Just don’t tell the night supervisor.”

“Thank you,” Lovett bites out, and then he’s slipping through the door, closing it behind himself with an audible click, throwing the room into darkness. Followed by the clash of falling metal and Lovett swearing, “fuck, shit, my toe.”

Dan chuckles a little. His throat is dry. “Why don’t you turn on a light before they have to give you a gurney, too?”

“Fuck off,” Lovett grumbles, but the lights flicker on, and then he’s standing at Dan’s bedside, his fingers itching a few inches above Dan’s blanket. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“No chance of that.” Dan chuckles, then coughs.

“Here.” Lovett reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table and Dan raises his bed so he can sit up and take a sip. “You know,” Lovett says, thoughtfully, as he leans against the bed, his weight a more pleasant kind of heavy than the elephant still pressing on Dan’s chest, “if sex with me was that bad, you could have just said. Faking a stroke seems like an awfully dramatic choice.”

Dan chokes on the water, and Lovett takes it back. He narrows his eyes at Lovett. “It wasn’t a stroke.”

“Fine, whatever,” Lovett raises his hands, putting large, exaggerated air quotes around his next words, “‘stroke-like symptoms.’”

“And maybe,” Dan continues, speaking past him, “it wasn’t that the sex was _bad_.”

Lovett blinks, his cheeks bursting into a shade of rose-grey that suits him. He widens his eyes exaggeratedly as he shakes his head. “You, Dan Pfeiffer, are full of surprises.”

“I try,” Dan says, his breath catching on the words and his heart starting to beat faster. He rubs at his chest. He corrects himself. “No, I really don’t.”

Lovett laughs, a full-bodied, neck-thrown-back kinda laugh. He’s still flushed with it as he hooks his ankle into the leg of the visitor’s chair and pulls it close. He falls into it, leaning back and crossing his sneakered feet by Dan’s hip.

Dan turns his head to look at him, finally taking in Lovett’s sweatpants and White House hoodie and- “Is that my Redskins hat?”

Lovett touches the edge of the hat self-consciously, but he doesn't take it off. “It’s still racist as shit, but, my head was cold. God only knows why you live in this godforsaken tundra.”

Dan’s heart beats in an entirely different way, and he rests his head back against his pillows. “The President’s here.”

Lovett hums non-committedly. “Speaking of-” He reaches for his backpack, nearly tipping his chair backwards. His thighs are thick and strong as they hold him steady, until he rights himself with a thick print-out in his lap. “I did have a reason for being here, beyond the fucking terrifying _I’m headed to the hospital, no big deal_ text you sent me. Shit, even I’m not that self-deprecating, and I’m a comedian.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Maybe don’t demean me in the same sentence you’re using to ask for my help.”

Lovett hums. “You’re in a hospital bed, you have no choice but to help me with language around tax incentives.”

Dan groans.

“Stop me if you hear something you don’t like.” Lovett adjust his glasses and peers down at the first page. “‘As the President-’”

Dan groans again, good-naturedly. “Stop.”

Lovett nudges Dan’s hip with the toe of his sneaker, laughing a little. “Unless you’d like me to start with ‘As Paul Ryan’-”

Dan shivers. “That’s a cruel joke to play on a stroke victim.”

“Stroke-like-symptoms,” Lovett corrects, turning back to the pages in his lap. “‘As the President, I make decisions for …’”

Lovett doesn’t move his foot and Dan drops his hand, sliding his fingers under the hem of Lovett’s sweatpants to circle his ankle. 

Lovett doesn’t get through the second paragraph before Dan’s eyes slide closed.

***

“Pudding cup?”

Dan looks up from his briefing book to see Lovett in his office doorway. He has dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow - he’d been sleeping, neck craned back, in the visitor’s chair when Dan had woken up that morning, and had only run home for a quick shower and change before heading to the office - but is dressed as smartly as he ever is in a blue-grey sweater and a pair of dress pants hugging low on his hips. 

Lovety holds up two pudding cups, raising a questioning eyebrow. Dan nods him in and he closes the door behind him as he crosses to Dan’s desk, handing over one of the cups and falling into the visitor’s chair, his feet crossed under himself.

“Where’d you get this?” Dan asks, as he opens the tinfoil cover. His mother used to pack pudding like this for his lunches in grade school. He used to trade them for zebra cakes and, on special occasions, half a twinkie, but he hasn’t seen one in ages.

Lovett shrugs, already digging into his. He has a smear of pudding on his lower lip that he licks off absently. “Stole them from the nurse’s station.”

“They’re gonna bill me for that.”

“You’re on the government healthcare plan. They’re gonna bill the taxpayers for them.”

“Careful where you say that, or they’re gonna revoke your DNC membership card.” Dan warns.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lovett waves him away. “I’ll have the section on governmental efficiency in the healthcare sector to you be EOD.”

“Actually-”

“No. Wait.” Lovett frowns, pulling out his blackberry.

“Lovett, I’m joking.” Dan chuckles. “When was the last time you checked the writing board?”

“I don’t know,” Lovett whines, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been a little busy. Stealing pudding cups.”

“Stealing from the taxpayers.”

“Putting the dollars the taxpayers have already spent,” Lovett argues, “to good use. I’m doing the country a favor, really.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dan says, chuckling deep in his chest. His heart aches, a deep, heavy weight that he’s not entirely sure is a symptom of his newly-diagnosed hypertension. He rubs his fist over his breastbone, just above his heart. “I hear self-delusion is a useful trait for a comedian.”

Lovett frowns at him, and for one, brief moment, Dan thinks he’s going to bring it up, ask something like _have you taken your medicine_ and force a space for himself in Dan’s life, whether he’s invited or not.

For a moment, Dan wants him to.

But then Lovett tilts his head, says, “averse as I am to ruining a good punchline, _shouldn’t_ we work on the healthcare section of the speech today?” and the moment passes.

***

Jon leans against the wall, his hands clasped behind his back as he mouths along to the President’s words.

Lovett paces, a blur of light grey suit and white shirt and dark curls.

Doctor Jackson’s been giving Dan coping mechanisms, so he’s standing back, counting the ins and outs of his breaths as he looks around the House Chamber. The last time he was here was last January, just a few weeks after Sarah had left, when his colors were just starting to blur from blue to grey and back again. A year on, though, the room is full of grey suits and grey-haired congresspeople. Dan follows the steel grey carpet up to the podium, where the President stands, gesturing strongly in front of the flag, rose-grey, white, and slate.

Dan can feel his blood pressure rise in his chest. He feels short of breath, the room starting to blur into a swirl of black and white. Lovett stops pacing to stand next to him, their shoulders just inches apart.

“He adlibbed in the healthcare section,” Lovett says, quietly. “Jon’s going to be insufferable.”

Dan laughs, glancing sideways. His colors solidify in Lovett’s profile and Dan forgets the drab grey around him in the brightness of Lovett’s smile, in the well-worn grooves of the laugh lines around his mouth, in the quartz tinge to his lips and the gunmetal highlights in his hair and the platinum of his skin, pulled tight across his neck as he turns to meet Dan’s eyes.

He raises an eyebrow and Dan covers, “I bought a bottle of bourbon, already. It's waiting in my office for this eventuality.”

“You're the smartest man I know,” Lovett says, seriously, tingeing it with something Dan can't quite place, then he nods towards the hallway. “Bar one.”

Dan slips out behind him, only glancing back to make sure that Jon and the rest of the senior staff are preoccupied with pacing. Lovett stops just down the hallway, where they can still hear the President’s rumbling voice, and pulls a flask out of his inner-breast pocket.

He takes a sip, then hands it out. Dan doesn't hesitate, taking a shuddering, fortifying draw. It’s cheap, probably from the liquor store on the corner outside the Capital building, and it's bitter on his tongue. It's bitter on Lovett’s tongue, too, when he presses Lovett against the wall, between huge portraits of JFK and LBJ.

He swallows Lovett’s surprised, pleased moan and he leans into Lovett’s hands as they slide under his suit jacket. His heart beats frantically in his chest, undoing all the good work Doctor Jackson has been doing, and he's hard, pressed against his thigh and Lovett’s hip.

“You are full of surprises,” Lovett murmurs, when he pulls back to listen to the President’s section on tax reform. It's the section he wrote at Dan’s bedside just a few days ago, and he spreads his fingers across Dan’s chest as he listens, mouthing along to the words, just as Jon does.

Unlike Jon, though, he perks up at the President’s ad libs, murmuring, “I inspired that,” as if he hasn't been a part of every SOTU speech since the Joint Session address. As if he still isn't quite prepared for the deep, lasting effects he has on the people around him.

As if Dan’s world isn't infinitely brighter just for having Lovett in it. As if, even though Lovett’s red-eye takes off from Reagan in just a couple of hours, he isn't leaving behind a life that, for the first time in over a year, feels worth living.

“Hey,” Jon says, standing in the doorway with his hands pushed deep into his pockets. He eyes them carefully, as he points his thumb back into the Chamber. “I wondered where you guys had gotten to.”

“Getting a head start,” Lovett offers, holding out the flask.

Jon laughs and, as he takes a long, careful swig, Lovett adjusts his belt around the hard line of his dick and closes his suit jacket. “Fuck,” Jon shivers, as he hands it back, “that is terrible.”

He's visibly relaxed, though, and Dan falls into step with Lovett as they head back inside.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jon.” POTUS raises his glass of champagne. “I know I didn’t want you in the beginning-”

Jon chuckles, a little watery, where he’s standing next to the Resolute desk. Tommy’s hand is strong and steady on his shoulder.

“- but I can admit when I’m wrong, and I was wrong. You’ve been my voice for eight years, and I will miss you greatly. I wish you the best of luck on your next adventure.”

Jon takes a sip of his champagne, his hand a little shaky as he clears his throat. “Thank you, sir. I’ll only be a phone call away, whenever you need me.”

“Don’t say that too loudly,” Dan tells him, smiling into the rim of his plastic champagne flute. “We may not give you a chance to miss us.”

Jon chuckles, squeezing Tommy’s hip. “We’re going on vacation for a month-”

“No phones,” Tommy adds.

“But then you can call as often as you need,” Jon promises. “We’ll probably need the work.”

Tommy shakes his head, laughing through the slight wetness at the corners of his eyes, shining the brightest blue-grey. He looks almost relieved when the door opens.

“That’s me,” the President sets his glass on the edge of his desk and takes the folder Jack hands him. “Apologies for cutting this short, but-” 

“The country doesn’t stop running just because I stopped running it,” Jon jokes.

Dan clasps his shoulder and pushes him and Tommy out of the Oval after the President. “Just keep telling yourself that that’s what you’ve been doing here.”

***

The Dubliner is loud.

It’s filled with everyone - friends, colleagues, the occasional enemy - that Jon and Tommy have touched in their combined decade and a half in DC politics, all clamouring to pay their respects with one last game of flip cup. For old time’s sake.

The photo - Jon and Tommy, both shirtless, both just as embarrassing, it turns out, in black and white as they were in color two and a half years ago - has a place of honor, blown up on blurry canvas behind the bar.

Jon had laughed when they arrived to find it waiting for them, a bright, extra-large bow taped to the corner. He’s a few more beers in now and he’s no less emotional than he was just a few hours ago in the Oval. Before he finished packing up the pictures on his walls and roped Dan into helping him carry the largest of the boxes to his car. Before he took Tommy’s hand and walked out of the West Gate for the last time as a full-time employee of the Obama Administration.

“Jesus,” Tommy mutters, as he trips through the crowd and settles next to Dan, near the back. “This place is packed.”

Dan wants to say _you’ve inspired a lot of people_ , but that would be maudlin, even for him. He glances down at his nearly-empty IPA and finishes it off. “Fattening the pig before they run you outta town.”

That forces a short burst of laughter out of Tommy.

Dan’s glad he went with the joke, rather than the other thing.

“That,” Tommy says, his face wide and open and the palest shade of ivory, even under the slight alcohol-flush, “is why we’re leaving on our own terms.”

Dan purses his lips, but Tommy isn’t wrong. Dan’s seen White House employees come and go, some on their own two feet, but all too often on stretchers of their own making. He’d watched Jon fight with the decision for months. Watched him grow testier, more and more annoyed with every change in the schedule, every new draft of a speech, every early morning call. Watched him worry about Tommy, about the late nights and the increasingly-haunted look in his eyes as Benghazi drew on. Watched him light up whenever he talked about Hollywood, about the palm trees and the sun and the possibility of getting a dog, of starting to build a life, as nebulous as the details were, outside of DC politics.

The details of Dan’s life inside DC politics feel nebulous enough, but he does understand that inclination. He’d even thought about it, for one brief, startling moment, the first time he met with the White House doctor after his brief hospital stay. “Have you thought about slowing down?” Doctor Jackson had asked, and Dan had paused, had thought about it, but his aversion must have shown on his face, because Ronny had just chuckled, said, “thought not,” and had pulled out his prescription pad.

A prescription Dan would have done good to avail himself of before he left the office. The Dubliner really is fucking loud. He rubs at his chest as he looks back across the bar, where Jon has his arms raised in triumph, watching, gleefully, as Cody tips his head back and downs an entire pint without stopping for breath.

“I should have booked us a later flight,” Tommy mutters as he follows Dan’s gaze. Then, “hey, Lovett, you made it.”

Dan starts, scanning through the crowd and catching sight of Lovett, a thousand shades of grey in a sea of mediocrity. He looks much the same he did six weeks ago, if a little sweatier from his long flight and the crowded bar. The top couple buttons are undone over the v neck of his sweater and his glasses are slipping down his nose. Dan’s breath catches anyway.

Tommy throws Dan a confused sideways glance before he reaches forward, wrapping his hand around Lovett’s elbow and pulling him the rest of the way.

“This bar is full of animals,” Lovett complains, as he hands Tommy a new beer and holds out a whiskey sour for Dan. There’s a sprig of thyme in it, but it’s not shaded in nearly the bright tints Lovett’s drink is. “I was watching you from the bar. Thought you could use something stronger.”

Dan’s heart thuds as he reaches out, their fingers brushing as he takes the glass. Lovett’s fingers are chilly from the drinks, but he doesn’t pull back quickly. Dan swallows. “Thanks.”

“Also, these.” He digs into his pockets, then drops a pair of rubbery earplugs into Dan’s palm. “Just put one in,” Lovett explains, turning his head so Dan can see the dark plastic in Lovett’s pale ear.

Dan has to keep himself from reaching out to trace the curve of Lovett’s ear. “Thanks,” he repeats, his voice thick, covering the motion by fitting the plug into his own left ear. It does dull a little of the chatter and the clang of glasses. HIs heart rate slows and steadies. He takes a deep breathe. “Seriously, thanks.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go find some people who aren’t as old as my grandmother.”

“Glad I flew all the way across the country,” Lovett calls after Tommy’s retreating back, but when he settles back against Dan’s shoulder, he says, casually, “Tommy’s not the only one who can make it worth my while.”

Fire shoots down Dan’s spine. Just two months ago, he had struggled to maintain any semblance of arousal in bed with an attractive, smart woman, but just the sound of Lovett’s voice, dropped low under the thrum of the crowd, has him hardening against his thigh. He shifts to hide it, asking, “do you still have my key?” before he can think better of it.

Lovett flushes, his light grey skin tinged with rose and charcoal, as he pats his front pocket. “Yeah.”

“I need to-” Across the room, the majority whip catches his eye, and Dan groans. “Shit, I need to put in some time on the climate bill. Give me an hour?”

Lovett nods, and slips into the crowd. Dan waves at the majority whip, and trudges his own way across the room. He loses track of Lovett but he doesn’t lose track of the time as the minutes of the slowest hour in his recent memory tick by.

Eventually, the whip moves on and Dan sidesteps the assistant to the labor secretary on his way to the door. Tommy and Jon are engrossed in a heated discussion at the bar, but Dan catches Tommy’s eye over the crowd, motioning to the earplug still thick and uncomfortable in his ear and putting on the grimace he uses to end meetings on the Hill earlier than planned. Tommy waves him away.

He’s only a few minutes late, but his front door is unlocked when he gets there. “I don’t know why you think that shithole you live in in LA is safe, but this is DC.”

“You live in Logan,” Lovett calls, and Dan follows his voice into the kitchen. Lovett’s already hung his sweater over the back of one of Dan’s tall bar stools and his back is straining under his white dress shirt as he bends into the refrigerator. “And,” he continues as he stands, a Miller Lite and one of Dan’s favorite Dogfish Heads in his hands, “I’m moving.”

Dan circles the bar, reaching into a drawer for his bottle opener. He holds it out. “You found a house?”

“Yeah.” Lovett takes it, opening the beers carefully. “The one I was telling you about, near Andy’s?”

“With the stone blue shutters?”

“And the white stucco. The realtor says it looks the same to her as it does to me or-,” Lovett pauses, holding out Dan’s beer.

“To me,” Dan finishes for him. He leans back against the counter, taking a long swig, before reaching out his leg and tapping Lovett’s foot. “Hi.”

Lovett chuckles, stepping closer. His eyes are impossibly taupe in his contacts. “Hi.”

“You looked really good tonight.” Dan takes another long sip, makes sure it’s slow and easy.

Lovett doesn’t lift his eyes from Dan’s throat as he puts his beer down by Dan’s hip. He snorts as he reaches up to play with the top button of Dan’s dress shirt, his fingers warm and electric as they brush against the hollow of Dan’s throat. “I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”

Dan shakes his head, “you need to get your eyes checked.”

“That,” Lovett deadpans, as he pinches Dan’s skin, right where it’s softest, “is the funniest joke a grey-chromatic has ever said. I’m gonna steal it for my set.”

“You bring it out in me,” Dan murmurs.

Lovett’s face twists. “It wasn’t actually that funny.”

“No shit.” Dan lowers his chin. “Can I-?”

“Fuck, yes.” Lovett wraps his hands around Dan’s hips, uses them to balance himself as he pushes up, meets Dan’s mouth in a flash of bright, grey heat. For a moment, it doesn't - can't possibly - live up to the expectations Dan’s been building over the past few weeks of phone calls, but then Lovett’s fingers tighten and he falls forward a little, tripping over Dan’s ankle. He giggles against Dan’s mouth and it's everything Dan’s been remembering and more.

“Fuck,” Lovett shakes his head as he pulls back to press white hot, branding kisses to the underside of Dan’s jaw. “You’re so fucking much. I should have- it's always the quiet ones.”

Dan flips open the button on Lovett’s pants, just enough to untuck his shirt and get his hands on Lovett’s skin. It's the softest silk, smooth and soft and Dan thinks, in this moment, he'd trade his sight for this newly awakened sense of touch all over again, any day of the week.

“What-” Dan murmurs, as he drops his head to press a kiss behind Lovett's ear, to the spot he’s been thinking about since Lovett showed it to him at the bar earlier- “does that say about you?”

“I'm the exception that breaks the rule.” 

Lovett tilts his head, making more space for Dan’s mouth, and Dan spreads his knees, pulling Lovett even closer. “I can’t argue with that.”

***

Jon and Tommy are drinking orange juice out of plastic cups by the time Dan and Lovett arrive the next morning. The apartment is full of boxes, stacked neatly in Tommy-mandated towers, each labeled with bright neon-tinged duck tape that, Dan can only assume, correlates to rooms in their new house in LA. “Respect the system,” Tommy’s said on numerous occasions over the past couple of months. Jon’s been bitching about it for just as long.

“Fuck, finally.” Tommy reaches out, wiggling his fingers towards the champagne bottles in Lovett’s arms. “What’s a last morning in DC without mimosas?”

“Or a table,” Dan mutters, glancing around the room.

“We wouldn’t have been late,” Lovett calls as he crosses into the kitchen, finding the last two cups and pouring them half full with lukewarm orange juice, “if we hadn’t had to stop at three - not one, not two, but three - liquor stores until we found something of suitable quality.”

“And was suitably cheap,” Dan corrects, as he accepts the glass Lovett hands him. “Cheapskate just sold a fucking script to NBC.”

“‘A’ being the operative word.” 

Dan nudges his shoulder, and doesn’t feel self-conscious about it until he catches Tommy watching them, champagne bottle poised halfway to Lovett’s cup, his eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

“What does a guy have to do around here to get some alcohol?” Lovett shakes his cup. “Terrible hosts. If this is the kind of party you throw, I’ve really gotta tone down the Welcome to LA bash I’ve been planning for months.”

“You have not,” Jon rolls his eyes. They’re a little watery, although Dan’s not sure if that’s from the hangover or the imminent move.

Lovett actually has - Dan’s spent more than one late night ride home on the phone with Lovett, or, really, on hold with Lovett while he berated a caterer or an unsuspecting Party City staffer - but Tommy’s still looking at him sideways, and, instead, he raises his glass. “To your last morning in the swamp.”

Jon chuckles, raising his own glass. “To an entire month without our phones.”

“To my sanity once Jon realizes what a month without our phones really means.”

Lovett laughs. “He’ll be calling the Times from a payphone within a week, asking for a rundown.”

“Over-under on a week,” Dan wagers. “I’m going under, obviously.

“Under.”

“Under.”

“Fine, fine,” Jon grouses. “You’ll all feel bad when I’m cashing in on bloomin’ onions for a year.”

“Sure,” Dan agrees. “That’s one way it will never go.”

“Hello? Mr. Vietor?” Someone calls from the doorway.

“Shit. The moving company.” Tommy downs his mimosa, then rushes to meet them.

The next hour passes in a blur of boxes and then Tommy and Jon are leaving their keys on the counter, grabbing their suitcases, and holding up an irritated cab driver. Dan hugs them both, “I’ll be in LA soon,” and even Lovett allows himself to be pulled into a - “this is unnecessary, you’re moving _across the street_ from me” - hug.

“Have you ever,” Lovett asks, when the taxi’s disappeared into DC traffic, “thought about leaving?”

“Honestly?”

Lovett shrugs. “I won’t really know, so, lie if you want, I guess.”

Dan chuckles. “No, not lately. There were a couple of times, before reelection, but, in with the stream out with the ocean, right?”

Lovett stops walking long enough to bend over in laughter. “That,” he says, between peels, “is not a phrase.”

Dan hums, but doesn’t stop with him. “Whatever. You get the point.”

“Director of communications, ladies and gentleman.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “Senior advisor, now.”

“Shit, right.” Lovett catches up with him. “So, I, ahh, moved my flight to tomorrow. If you don’t have to go into work now that you’re more important?”

“Fuck off.” Dan taps their shoulders together, feeling the same flash of electricity he always feels when Lovett smiles, when Lovett touches him, when Lovett smells like last night’s margaritas and the faint hint of Dan’s sheets. 

He might not be thinking about leaving, but he does turn all but his red emergency phone off for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Alyssa’s sleeping on Dan’s couch when he gets back from the situation room. He watches her for a moment, his eyes burning with his own exhaustion and the deep, charcoal circles under her eyes. They’ve been growing exponentially for weeks now.

He’d let her sleep, except it’s going on nine pm, and he’d promised her end-of-week drinks long before everything almost went to hell in Syria. Instead, he picks up the thick briefing book on his desk and lets it fall back with a thud.

“What?” Alyssa sits up immediately. 

Dan remembers when they both used to get important calls on their blackberrys late at night and they’d blink awake, let their eyes adjust, sometimes even brush their teeth before answering. That was before they were both promoted to the red emergency phone and trained themselves to be alert at the mere intimation of a ring. He smiles at her gently. “I promised you drinks. Never say I don’t deliver.”

“You offered me drinks,” Alyssa glances at her watch as she runs her fingers through her hair, “three hours ago.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I need to be worried about?”

Dan shakes his head as he grabs his briefcase and all three of his phones, shoving them into his pockets. “Only your margarita choice. And no, before you even suggest it, chocolate is not valid.”

“Margaritas are for 2010 me. 2013 me needs a scotch on the rocks.”

Dan laughs, holding his door open for her and then shutting it behind them with an end-of-day click that’s feeling less and less definitive recently. “That we can find.”

The walk to the Hilton is short, but Dan’s phone rings when they’re just outside. He digs out his work phone with a sigh, but it’s dark. He reaches into his other pocket for his personal phone and- Shit. Five missed calls and a dozen texts.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta-” Dan turns his phone towards her so she can see Lovett’s name over and over again down his lockscreen. “I’ll be in in a minute- get me a beer?”

Alyssa hums and he watches her take the steps two at a time as he answers his phone. “Lovett? Are you-?”

“Hey.” Lovett’s voice is loose and droopy. “Dan, just the man I’ve been trying to reach.”

“I see that. I was-” Dan stops himself. “I’m sorry I couldn’t answer sooner.”

“It’s okay. You have more important-” For a moment, Lovett sounds wistful, but then he twists his tone. “Your loss, I mean, you’re the victim here, delaying the benefit of my wit.”

“If I had my choice,” Dan promises. 

Lovett humms.

“Hey.” Dan pictures Lovett, standing outside whatever bar he’s been drowning himself in, digging his toes into the LA dirt, his body striped with the blinding greys Dan has started associating with sunsets in California. Not for the first time Dan wishes he were there, as much to see as to touch. “Is anyone there with you?”

“Yeah.” Lovett takes a deep breath, his voice slurred as it spills out over his outlines. “Spencer’s inside. I just stepped out for- I just stepped out to call you.”

“Good.” Dan’s stomach drops - stupidly, ridiculously - at Spencer’s name. Stupidly, because Spencer’s been creeping into Lovett’s stories for months now, and if he was going to give Lovett his colors, Lovett would have them by now. Ridiculously, because Dan’s already had and lost his colors. He knows, better than anyone, that he can’t give Lovett his colors, either. He swallows and instead of anything that he wants to say, repeats, “that’s good.”

Lovett lets out a deep sigh. “I wish you were here.”

Dan’s breath catches.

“Real handjobs are so much better than auditory ones.”

And he chokes it out on a laugh. “No arguments from me.” His phone pings and he pulls it away to see a text from Alyssa. He sighs. “But, I’m afraid I can’t help you on the auditory front, either. Alyssa’s waiting inside and-”

“Oh,” Lovett interrupts quickly, his voice back to normal and Dan regrets it immediately, “Shit. I didn’t mean- say hi for me?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll, ahh, talk to you. Later, I guess.”

“Anytime. Seriously.” Dan means to continue, but Lovett’s already hung up. Dan sighs, looking at his dark screen for a moment, before pocketing his phone and following Alyssa into the bar.

***

Lovett reaches for the sheet with his toe, wincing a little as he stretches. “Shit, I need a nap.”

Dan rolls over, just long enough to glance at the time on his phone, before he lies back on his side, close enough to feel Lovett’s body heat. “Whose bright idea was it to schedule dinner with Jon and Tommy?”

Lovett turns his head to glare, but the effect is tempered by the way his curls stick to his flushed forehead and the way the dark, gunmetal bruises stand out on his ash grey neck. “Whose, indeed.”

“You know what I really miss between our trysts?” Dan asks, as he reaches down, trailing a finger up the inside of Lovett’s thigh, through the crease where the skin is warm and wrinkled and a lighter shade of grey.

Lovett spreads his legs wider, shivering at the touch. “My mind-blowing observations about the world crumbling around us?”

“You know?” Dan tilts his head against the pillow as he deadpans, “that was exactly what I was going to say.”

“Straight shooter, respected on both sides.” Lovett turns onto his side, dislodging Dan’s hand. “You know what I miss?”

Dan hums.

Lovett answers by wrapping his fist around Dan’s sensitive dick, pumping once, twice, three times, adding a twist of his wrist. Dan groans, feeling himself harden valiantly, reaching towards Lovett’s fingers.

“I’ve actually been thinking about that,” Dan admits, leaning closer to press a kiss to behind Lovett’s ears. “The sound of your voice would be more than enough.”

_Thinking about_ is more than an understatement. He’s been thinking about little beyond health care and Lovett jerking him off with his voice since the night Lovett mentioned it almost two months ago. Had been thinking about it so hard, in fact, that he’d been planning to take Lovett up on the offer the next evening, until he woke up at 4am and read through the overnight media monitoring. The “1600 Penn” cancellation notice, Dan hopes, was sent just to him and not the entire communications department.

In the weeks since, Lovett’s offer has been warring for mental space with healthcare and Lovett’s obvious instincts to call Dan the moment the cancellation happened, even if he never actually mentioned it in all the missed calls or texts.

Now, though, with Lovett’s hand on his dick and an offer for the Newsroom’s writing staff on Lovett’s plate, Dan doesn’t have to think twice. “I’m not saying I’ll be very good-”

“Shit.” Lovett pushes closer, opening his mouth for a wet, open-mouthed kiss as he throws a thigh over Dan’s, pressing himself into the hollow of Dan’s hip. He laughs, self-deprecatingly. “It won’t take much, obviously.”

Dan rolls onto his back, spreading his knees and pulling Lovett to lie between them.

***

“Sorry, sorry, I know, we’re late,” Lovett says, quickly, as they join Jon and Tommy at the new combined arcade and gourmet burger joint down the street from Lovett’s new place. “We were christening the new house.”

Dan hopes that Jon and Tommy take that to mean they ordered half of the thai food in WeHo and caught Dan up on Call of Duty, but, as he flushes all the way down his neck, he figures he’s not selling the case.

Lovett seems unperturbed as he orders burgers for the table - “we’re going to share them all anyway, at least let me make sure we don’t end up with, like, pineapple on them or something” - and pulls his feet under himself in his chair, wincing a little as he settles on his ankles.

Dan’s flush deepens. “I’m so glad I came to LA a couple of days early,” he says flatly, hoping to cover with a quip.

Jon and Tommy exchange a look, though, and Tommy pushes his chair back, clapping a hand on Lovett’s shoulder. “Fancy a Street Fighter wager?”

Lovett raises an eyebrow. “The dinner tab?”

“Sure.”

“This is such an obviously stupid wager that I know you’re playing me. But until I figure out your game,” Lovett uncurls his legs and follows Tommy into the arcade, “I’m not gonna pass up free dinner.”

“Subtle,” Dan complains, as he settles back in his chair, reaching for his beer and holding it in his lap.

Jon shrugs. “It was Tommy’s idea.”

“No shit. It certainly wasn’t yours.”

“No.” Jon shifts, glancing across the room at Tommy and Lovett. Lovett’s hands are already in the air in victory. Round 1 over, then. “I drew the short straw. Literally.”

“What a view into your homelife,” Dan bites out, then, “fuck, just- say whatever you want to say before we both make more asses of ourselves.”

“Yeah.” Jon fiddles with the wrapper on his beer, unsticking it, sticking it, unsticking it again so he can roll the glue between his fingers. Dan stares at his face, somehow as handsome in black and white as it always was in color. “It’s- I’m- Tommy thinks you and Lovett are-” Jon frowns. “Something.”

Dan can’t help the flush that is still, he assumes, pinking his cheeks. “Eloquent.” He can, however, control the tone of his voice, as long as he keeps it short. 

“I retired from speechwriting,” Jon waves him away. “So, are you?”

“I don’t see how it’s really any of your business.”

“I know, I know.” Jon holds his hands up, palms out. “It took you six months to tell us about Sarah, I get it.”

Dan shifts uncomfortably. He wishes there was more beer in his glass. He wishes he was just mainlining an entire keg.

Jon’s eyes widen. “Wait, how long has it-? Tommy thought the going away party, but, longer than six months?”

Dan shrugs. “Marginally.”

“Fuck.”

He sighs. “It’s really not a big deal. We’re not- I really don’t want to be talking about this.”

“I know. You’re-” Jon motions to what Dan can only assume is his entire demeanor. “- is making that very clear. And I’m not going to make you, I’m - we’re - just worried about you.”

Dan’s heart leaps. “Me? You’re worried about me?”

“Well, yeah.” Jon frowns. “You’re- fuck, Dan, you’re gonna make me say it? You’re never going to get your colors again.”

Fuck.

“But Lovett-” Jon’s face softens around his frown, all dark lines in his forehead and around his eye as he squints at Dan in sincerity. “Lovett’s going to get his colors someday.”

Dan swallows around the thought, just as he's swallowed around it every time it's come up over the past few months. “I know. I know all of this, Jon.”

“And then-” Jon trails off, unwilling to finish.

Dan does it for him. “And then, if we were something, which we’re not, he’d leave,” _me_. “Which would be a problem, if there was something to leave.”

“Okay,” Jon says, skeptically, drawing out the second syllable, but then he leaves it be.

Throughout the rest of the dinner though - through conversations about the Middle East, through Lovett trying and failing to cut each of the burgers into fourths, through the looks Tommy throws between Dan and Jon - Dan can’t help thinking about it. About what it will be like when Lovett calls, eventually, with the good news. About how excited his voice will be, about how rapidly he’ll talk about the nuances of green he's never known palm trees could be. About how he’ll apologize, when he registers all the careful, measured “I knows”s. About how he'll say, “I'm sorry, Dan, I know you'll never- I'm sorry you'll never have this again,” condescending and pitying. About how Dan will lose the one person who has never been any of those things.

“Hey,” Lovett taps his fingers on Dan’s wrist, his lips twisted, a darker, gunmetal shadow around his mouth. “Wanna lose to me at skeeball?”

Dan swallows. “What makes you think I'm gonna lose?”

“Oh.” Lovett’s eyes widen in pleasure. “I can think of a few things to wager.”

“Yeah,” Dan agrees, thinking _my heart_ , meaning _my ass_ , and not regretting either. “So can I.”

***

The Correspondents’ Dinner coincides with the President’s remarks on ACA, Equal Pay, and the roll-out of the international Climate Change Plan. By the time Lovett arrives in DC, five days before the dinner and at least seven since Dan’s had a full night’s sleep, Dan’s buried deep in briefing books and communication plans.

He’s scribbling _tell POTUS to mention France_ on both the Equal Pay and Climate Change communications plans because he can’t honestly remember which it applies to, when he hears a key in the lock.

“You’re early,” he calls, without moving. “Good flight?”

“I’m late,” Lovett calls back from the hallway. He throws his bags in Dan’s bedroom, then makes his way to the kitchen through the living room. “What time do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.” Dan rubs a hand over the back of his head, squinting at his watch. The dial is blurry. “Weren’t you supposed to get in at 7?”

“It’s 10.” Lovett stops at the edge of the kitchen, his left hand on his hip, frowning. “My flight was delayed out of O’Hare- I texted you?”

“Did you?” Dan feels around in the mess of papers and finally pulls out his personal phone. It’s dead. “Sorry. Been a busy few weeks.”

“No shit. You haven’t answered that thing in days. Don’t know why you even have a personal phone.” Lovett shakes his head, crossing to him and resting his fingers on the back of Dan’s neck. “Or a secretary. Do you know Erin rats you out? She’s been sliding me under-the-table information for months.”

“On, what?” Dan leans back in his chair, resting his head on Lovett’s stomach. “My lunch choices? I’m pretty sure Alyssa keeps, like, a spreadsheet about my lettuce intake.”

“I’ll have to start bribing her too, then.” Lovett trails his fingers up the back of Dan’s scalp, scratching against his short hair. “Erin likes chocolate covered cherries, in case you ever need to get her on your side.”

Dan lets his eyes slide closed. “I don’t think I can afford to overbid you.”

“Probably not.” Lovett shrugs, and Dan can feel it through his stomach. “I’m a big shot staff writer now, or haven’t you heard?”

“Of an Aaron Sorkin show,” Dan argues to Lovett's slight sarcasm. “That’s the jackpot of staff writing gigs.”

Lovett snorts, but he lets the silence linger for a long, slow, calming moment, before he says, his voice soft, “I wasn’t sure- I had Erin book me a room at the Kimpton. It’s good for tax and PR purposes anyway. And in case-”

Dan slides his eyes open. Lovett’s face is mottled in shades of light and pinkish grey. His eyes are wide, the deepest, darkest charcoal. Dan has never seen him so unsure. Any of the thoughts he’s been entertaining since LA - about Jon’s stupid, sincere face; about pulling away, leaving Lovett to the kind of all-encompassing, mind-altering kind of soulbond he’ll inevitably find, with Dan’s luck, sooner rather than later; about getting Lovett a hotel room and asking him to stay there - fly out the window. Because Dan has had a soulmate, and he loved her with what he thought was everything he had, and it hadn’t been enough, not nearly. Not when his stomach never swooped the way it is with Lovett looking at him, now.

“No,” Dan whispers, lifting his chin up for a clumsy Spiderman kiss. “No ‘in case.’”

“Okay.” Lovett nods, pulling back a little, his face settling into a lopsided frown. “Would have saved me some late nights staring at the ceiling and wondering about your mental state if you had sent me a picture of the state of your apartment. Of course, you’d have had to be here to take a picture. When was the last time you slept?”

Dan shakes his head, following Lovett’s gaze into the living room. It’s spotless. The cleaning lady was there - fuck, almost a week ago, now - and not a book or blanket or couch cushion is out of place. Dan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Will you believe me if I say I don’t remember?”

“That’s the only answer I’d believe.” Lovett holds out his hand and, when Dan looks from him to the briefing book, rolls his eyes. “Bring your work, whatever. I just want this couch to feel a little less deserted.”

Dan hums, settling into the corner of the couch and resting the briefing book on the arm. Lovett stretches out, pushing his socked feet into Dan’s lap and wiggling his toes until Dan starts drawing soothing, rhythmic, concentric circles around his ankle bones.

“Season 2?” Lovett asks, but before Dan can answer, he’s pulling up _Stackhouse Filibuster_.

Dan glances at the thick briefing book that won’t read itself, then down at Lovett’s pale grey ankles, so warm and steady in his lap. He digs his fingers in harder, resting his head back against the back of the couch. Dan’s asleep before the opening credits.

The first time he wakes up, his neck is crinked and his lap is cold. His head feels thick and weary, and he rolls it to the side as he blinks the crust out of his eyes. Lovett is there, legs crossed under him, his laptop cradled between his thighs. _West Wing_ is still playing in the background, low under the soft click of Lovett’s fingers flying across his keyboard.

“Hey.” Lovett looks over, his fingers pausing. “You fell asleep.”

“Yeah.” Dan sits up, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck and massaging it. “My neck can feel it.”

Lovett finishes a few words, then saves his document, closing the laptop with a thump. “When was the last time you didn’t fall asleep on a couch?”

Dan shrugs. “The couch in my office is comfortable.”

“For, like, mid-afternoon quickies.”

Dan raises an eyebrow through the slow, molasses feeling in his head.

“Naps,” Lovett clarifies. “How is your mind even in the gutter? You look like death on a triscuit. I’m not touching you until I can tell what fucking shade of white you are.”

“Ivory is in this season,” Dan tries to joke, but it’s broken by a yawn.

Lovett chuckles, rising off the couch, his laptop tucked carefully under his arm. “Bed,” he orders.

Dan rises slowly, shedding his clothes as he follows Lovett into his bedroom, leaving them dotting the hallway. He slides under his sheets in his boxers, curling onto his side and watching Lovett undress. He’s asleep before Lovett gets to his socks.

The second time he wakes up, the sun is just rising through the slats in his blinds. When he blinks his eyes open - still crusty and itchy with exhaustion - Lovett is next to him, breathing heavily across the careful two inches of space between them. His hands are clutched under his pillow and his face is loose and young. Dan allows himself a moment to memorize the shades of grey across the divots and laughter lines, before he curls his body close and closes his eyes again.

The third time Dan wakes up, his head is light and wider, like he has the space to think that he hasn’t had in weeks. He’s half hard, but when he rolls his head, Lovett isn’t there and the pillow is cold. He rolls out of bed and into a long, warm shower. He pulls on boxers and a 76ers t-shirt, and leaves his room.

Lovett is at the kitchen table, his legs pulled under himself and wrapped in Dan’s Georgetown sweatshirt. He’s typing rapidly on his laptop, a cup of coffee perched precariously at his elbow. When Dan glances around, he can see the coffee maker dripping a coffee ring onto his kitchen counter, the pile of blankets and pillows spilled across his couch, the mess of papers spread out across the coffee and kitchen tables.

His apartment feels lived in, so much warmer and lighter grey than it did just last night. Dan’s heart twists, stupidly, ridiculously, and he shoves away the desire to ask Lovett to stay in favor of crossing to him. “Morning.”

“Afternoon,” Lovett corrects, absently, as he finishes his paragraph.

“I slept for, like-”

“Fifteen hours.” Lovett supplies, as he pushes away and smiles, crossing over to the coffee maker and starting to pour a glass. “Your body’s going to need some time to adjust. I made coffee.”

Dan steps between his knees, pressing Lovett back against the counter.

“And I have a full draft of the speech for you. If you wanna-”

“In an hour,” Dan murmurs, putting the coffee behind Lovett’s hip and pulling him into a kiss. “Come back to bed.”

***

Dan’s phone rings.

He sits up immediately, his red emergency phone pressed to his ear less than five seconds after it starts ringing.

It keeps ringing.

Dan frowns, reaching for his second, non-emergency work phone and finding it silent, too. He finally finds his private phone on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s so late.”

“Lovett?” Dan glances at his clock. _3:23 _. “It’s fine.”__

__“It’s not. It’s-” Lovett’s voice is loose, a little wobbly, a little distant. “I’m sorry. I just needed to- You’re the only one I wanted to talk to.”_ _

__Dan’s heartbeat picks up, beating unhealthily fast against his chest as he hears Lovett’s tone. “Where are you? Are you safe?”_ _

__“Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t-” Lovett’s breath catches. “I’m fine. I’m in an Uber.”_ _

__Dan’s let out his own breath. He settles himself more comfortable against the headboard, blinking into the gloom of his bedroom, willing his heartbeat to slow down. “Good. That’s- good.”_ _

__“Fuck. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”_ _

__“Lovett,” Dan interrupts, letting himself feel just a little something that he’s the one Lovett wanted to call. “I’m glad you called. Can you-?” He pauses, switching tactics. “Tell me what happened.”_ _

__“It was so stupid,” Lovett’s voice cracks on the last word. “I knew better. I know better. This is exactly why I stay on Grey Grindr, so I can’t get into these fucking misunderstandings.”_ _

__That something twists dark and grey-green before Dan can hold himself back. “Did he hurt you?”_ _

__“Physically?” Lovett snorts. “No, no. He was- He paid for dinner, actually. The sex was adequate. I might even have seen him again, sometime, if he hadn’t-”_ _

__Lovett’s voice grows muffled as he presses Dan to his chest. Faintly, Dan can hear him thank the Uber driver, and then the faint sounds of the quiet, familial WeHo neighborhood Lovett lives in. Dan’s grown intimately familiar with them over the past year or so, and especially in the few months since the Correspondents Dinner, since, at least for Dan, it had felt like they’d turned a corner._ _

__Dan has to hold back every instinct screaming in him to say _I don’t want you going on second dates with anybody but me_. Which is, still, a compromise to the _I don’t want you going on dates with anybody but me_ that he really wants to ask for, but would never, could never hold Lovett that far back from getting his colors._ _

__“-if he hadn’t,” Lovett finally continues, once he’s inside and bundled himself on the couch, “gotten his colors. When he was teetering on the fucking edge, too. He was convinced- fuck, it was the most romantic part I’ve never played.”_ _

__Dan’s breath catches. He feels lightheaded. “Lovett.” He swallows, his throat as dry as sandpaper. “You buried the lead, here. Did you- do you have- Shit, Lovett, did you find your soulmate?”_ _

__“No,” Lovett says, sharply. “No. It was some dude his roommate brought home. I would have- I didn’t get my colors. I didn’t find my soulmate. I can’t-” Lovett’s voice softens, as small and vulnerable as Dan has ever heard it, as it cracks over his admission. “I won’t ever see my colors.”_ _

__Dan’s reeling, his breath catching on every inhale. He forces himself to say, “you don’t know that.”_ _

__“I do,” Lovett says, in the same quiet, distant voice. “I, ahh, saw them. For a few moments. Just long enough to know the exact shade of royal blue of the recycling bin I was stuffed into.”_ _

__“Jon.” Dan closes his eyes, his own voice breaking over Lovett’s name._ _

__“It was only a few seconds, really, and then everything was grey again. An unrequited soulbond. It happens more often than you’d think, especially for queer people. I don’t actually- there were three of them. I think, I mean, I had a crush on the ringleader. It was probably him, but, I can’t be sure.”_ _

__Dan swallows tight around the ball in his throat. “Do you ever wonder where he is?”_ _

__“He’s still on Long Island. He’s a real estate agent, married with a couple of kids. Very wasp-y.”_ _

__“His soulmate?”_ _

__Lovett’s voice shrugs. “I think so. He talks about his colors on Facebook sometimes.”_ _

__“Fuck. That’s- eminently unfair.” Dan’s clutching the quilt with his fist. His heart is beating fast enough to cause side effects that will bother Dan’s doctor, even just thinking about the possibility of having Lovett and throwing him away so carelessly. “I’m really sorry.”_ _

__“I’m not,” Lovett says, sincerely. “I’ve never, ahh, told anyone that story before. It’s embarrassing and I don’t want anyone’s pity, but- I don’t regret what happened. He’s an asshole. That’s the worst fucking part, isn’t it? That fate thought I could ever be with someone so casually cruel.”_ _

__“Maybe,” Dan says, slowly. “Maybe fate never meant for him to be your soulmate. Maybe he was just fate’s pawn, an early, integral moment in the development of your political and social consciousness.”_ _

__Lovett hums. “You’re pretty smart for a guy who sleeps four hours a night.”_ _

__Dan chuckles. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, since Sarah left.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Lovett swallows. “I think- I think this whole colors thing is a scam. The soulmate I had at 15 isn’t the soulmate I want for the rest of my life. _I_ don’t even like 15 year-old me. I was terrible. What would I want with the guy who loved that?”_ _

__Dan chuckles. “I don’t know, you sounded pretty insightful at 15.”_ _

__Lovett scoffs. “Oh, no, I was devastated about this. For years. Until, really, I met-” He lets something hang, thick and heavy in the air between them, before he finishes, easily, “I’m older now. Which comes with a certain set of wisdom, I’m told.”_ _

__“So they say,” Dan agrees._ _

__Lovett yawns, pillowing his phone between his ear and the couch cushions, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry I woke you so late. You should go back to sleep while you can.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Dan murmurs wishing, not for the first time, that he had the kind of job he could leave for a few days on short notice. “I’m, ahh, really glad you called me.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Lovett whispers, “yeah, me too.”_ _

__“And, Lovett?”_ _

__“Hmm.”_ _

__Dan thinks back to the argument Lovett had with the doctor almost two years ago now. Dan hadn’t understood it then. Now, though, “I don’t think- Society conflates colors and soulmates. I don’t think, necessarily, they have to be the same thing.”_ _

__Lovett inhales. “Yeah,” he says, softly, “yeah, I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently, too.”_ _

__Dan wants to stay on the phone, just listening to the soft sound of Lovett breathing, but he has to be at work in an hour for the President’s farm subsidies task force and Lovett’s clearly falling asleep on his couch. “Go to bed,” he orders, softly. “And call me in the morning. Please?”_ _

__“Yeah.” Lovett swallows. “Yeah, I will.”_ _


	4. Chapter 4

“Alyssa, I can’t remember a time when you weren’t my confidant, my conscience, one of my closest friends. I’m going to miss having you right down the hall, but, you won’t cease to be those things just because you’re a phone call away.” POTUS raises his glass. “To Alyssa. All well wishes in New York. I, for one, could not be prouder of you.”

Alyssa keeps her eyes dry in the Oval Office, but Dan isn’t quite as lucky. He wipes discreetly at the corners of his eyes, digging in with his index fingers and willing himself to be at least as strong as Alyssa’s being.

This one’s hard, though. For all the deja vu of people leaving - good people, the people Dan remembers from Iowa and New Hampshire and Illinois, the people who joined this campaign not based on a hope to win, but on a hope to change the color of politics and push the progressive agenda - in the past eighteen months, stretching from Axe and Gibbs to Plouffe and Jon and Tommy, Dan had vainly hoped that he and Alyssa would turn off the lights together.

“I need some sleep,” Alyssa had said, almost six months ago now, when Dan had met her in the hospital. “The doctors say it’s exhaustion, dehydration, anxiety. The trifecta of the White House Bubonic Plague.”

Dan had chuckled, watery and forced, and when she had come to him a few months later, her resignation clutched in her hand, his heart had sunk, but he hadn’t been surprised. “Some of us can’t work through debilitating heart problems,” she had told him, her voice and her hands shaking. He had taken them, told her, “you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” as sincerely as he possibly could, and had walked her to the Oval.

He says it again, now, as he picks up the last of the boxes from her - soon Anita’s - desk and walks next to her as she leaves out of the West Gate for the last time.

“I feel- relieved,” she says, her voice still clear and even, as she marches to her car, her flats squelching in the late-April rain puddles. “Shouldn’t I- I don’t know, feel regret or failure or- shit, what did I do with my keys?”

Dan slides his box onto the top of her car and reaches for her box to do the same. “You’d feel failure if you were a failure. You stayed longer than most senior aides. Lucky you didn’t start sleep-talking national secrets long before now.”

“Who’s saying I didn't?” Alyssa spreads her purse on the trunk of the car so she can rummage through it.

Dan crosses his arms, leaning against the car, his shoulder close to hers. “I’ll have to ask David, then.”

“Please do. He’ll be at brunch tomorrow. Shit.” Alyssa holds up a handful of eyeliner and tampons and highlighters, and lets it all fall back into the bag. “Shit, I can’t find- Did I leave them in my-” She stops. “Not my office. I don’t have an office. I don’t even have an ID badge, I can’t get back inside-”

Her face falls, but Dan’s been waiting for it for hours - days, really - and he opens his arms, pulling her close to his chest. He speaks low, his chest rumbling against her cheek, “I can always get you a guest pass. Anytime you need, just ask.”

Her shoulders shake, and Dan can feel her tears leaking through his dress shirt. “Have I made the biggest mistake?”

“No,” Dan says, surprised, a little, by how much he means it. “You know I’m- you know the President- we’re going to miss the hell out of you. I honestly don’t know how we’re going to get on without you. But-”

Alyssa pulls back a little, her palm flat against his lapels as she straightens him out. “It’s the right time,” she finishes. “I owe it to myself. And I owe it to David.”

“Yeah,” Dan breathes, thinking, despite himself, about Lovett. Lovett, who called him the moment his show was canceled and called again, just a few weeks ago, when _The Newsroom_ was canceled. Lovett, who had to whisper his greatest secret into the darkness and the crackling of their phones, because Dan wasn’t there. Because Dan’s never there. His chest twists under Alyssa’s hand. “You made the right decision,” Dan promises, his voice cracking as he wonders if he can say the same thing for himself.

“Thanks.” She chuckles wetly, as she turns back to her bag. “Found them,” she exclaims, grinning as she straightens, her keys clutched in one hand and a packet of tissues in the other. She hands him one. “Here. Wipe your eyes, we are going out to celebrate.”

“You know all those things I said about missing you?” Dan asks, as he accepts the Kleenex. “Forget all of them. I’m going to get a lot less abuse around here.”

“You’re going to miss it,” she promises, loftily, as she shoves the boxes into the backseat and starts the car.

Dan hums noncommittally as he climbs into the passenger side.

***

Dan pauses with the door half open. It’s late, a little past two, and he’s had more than his and at least half of Alyssa’s share of whiskey sours. Still, he’s almost certain that the lights are on in his hallway and there’s at least one extra pair of shoes on his welcome mat.

“Hello?” He calls into his apartment, as he toes off his own dress shoes and walks, cautiously, into his kitchen.

“Hey.” Lovett turns from where he’s sitting, cross-legged, on Dan’s kitchen counter, his laptop perched carefully in his lap. He grins, all ivory teeth and rose-grey cheeks. “You’re finally home.”

“You’re-” Dan blinks, but when he opens his eyes again, Lovett’s still there, stark and clear in all the vibrant shades of grey Dan only associates with him- “here.”

“Alyssa called. And I was coming in on Saturday, anyway, for the Correspondents’ Dinner, so I changed my flight.” Lovett’s smile falters. “Hope that’s okay?”

Dan crosses the room, reaching for Lovett’s laptop and putting it aside as he pushes close, his ribs between Lovett’s bent knees. “More than okay,” he murmurs, leaning forward, his mouth already open and wet and tasting more than a little like a distillery.

Lovett moans into it, unraveling his legs and wrapping them around Dan’s hips, using his ankles to pull Dan even closer. He wraps his hands around Dan’s cheeks, his fingers rubbing through the salt streaks, and Dan can’t help the few tears that slip through. “Oh, babe,” Lovett whispers, as he pulls his mouth away to kiss at the corners of Dan’s eyes.

“End of an era,” Dan clears his throat, trying to joke. “I’m the last of the original guard. The old man, left behind to watch the castle.”

Lovett chuckles, hot breaths against Dan’s ear as he trails his fingers down Dan’s chest to press against the bulge in Dan’s pants. “Not so old.”

“Shit.” Dan sways forward, pressing Lovett’s hand back into the edge of the counter. “Would you- I want you- I want you to fuck me.”

Lovett groans, pushing his heels harder into Dan’s lower back and arching his hips to rub himself against Dan’s stomach. “Fuck. Yes. You don’t have to- what, did you think I was going to say no to that?”

Dan shrugs. “You’re here,” he says, unable to keep all the awe and gratefulness out of his voice as he sways forward, catching himself on Lovett’s thighs. “Wanna make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Always am,” Lovett promises. He arches his hips, pushing Dan just far enough away so he can move his hand between them. He undoes Dan’s belt with a clank of metal, then flicks open the button holding up Dan’s pants, his eyes wide and the darkest ash as he watches them slide to the floor. Dan’s boxers are old and loose, hanging low on his hips, and Lovett doesn’t have any trouble slipping his hand under the waistband, sliding his index finger along Dan’s ass.

Dan keens forward as he feels Lovett’s long, thin, perfect finger enter his body. He closes his eyes,resting his head on Lovett’s shoulder. “Shit, Jon.”

“Yeah.” Lovett turns his head, pressing a kiss to Dan’s ear as he adjusts himself on the counter, finding a better angle so he can crook his finger, brushing it tentatively against Dan’s walls, so hot and wet and ready for him. “So responsive. Every time. I’ve never- I’ve never met someone who _has_ their colors who feels things like you do.”

“You make me feel more than anyone has ever made me feel,” Dan admits. It’s the closest to this conversation that they’ve had since Lovett called him, so many months ago now. Since Lovett destroyed the barrier that had been standing between them and then had called the next morning, like he hadn’t upended Dan’s entire world. As if he hadn’t awakened every hope in Dan’s thoughts, that maybe, just maybe, Dan could actually have him. In every way that he wants.

“Me too, shit, me too.” Lovett adds a second finger, twisting them together, scissoring slowly. 

Dan opens around him, loose and accommodating, pulling Lovett in, wanting more, needing more. Dan’s body is, at least, as predictable as his mind. 

He tips his chin up, kissing loose and sloppy. “Bed?”

Lovett swears, pressing up into Dan for a long moment, before he pulls back, shoving Dan’s hips just far enough back that he can slide down from the counter. 

Lovett reaches behind his neck, pulling his t-shirt over his head as he makes his way down the hallway, and Dan is momentarily stopped by the long expanse of Lovett’s back, the ripples of gunmetal and nickel and slate in the divets of his spine as he laughs, pulling Dan with him. 

When they get to Dan’s bedroom, Dan fits himself along the length of Lovett’s back, reaching around him so he can slide Lovett’s waistband down. Lovett’s dick is thick and tinged in grey shades of purple and blue, so dark against the smooth platinum of his hips and the quartz-tinted flush of his upper thighs. Dan wraps his fist around Lovett, pumping once, twice, and Lovett throws his head back against Dan’s shoulder with a long, low groan. Dan can feel him leaking between his fingertips.

“Shit,” Lovett hisses, jerking his hips away and stepping out of his sweatpants. “Bed. Now. Or this is going to get embarrassing.”

Dan laughs, sliding onto the bed, jerking himself a few times as he reaches into the bedside table with his free hand. He pulls out the bottle and a condom, spreading his knees to make space for Lovett between them, and hands them over.

Lovett pauses, twisting the foil packet between his fingers, before he takes a deep breath. “I haven’t, ahh, with anyone else, since- since that incident with the colors. I know we didn’t talk- I don’t mean to imply-”

Dan surges up, meeting Lovett in a clash of uncoordinated teeth. He wraps his hand around the back of Lovett’s neck, squeezing gently as he pulls back, his voice rough as he admits, “I haven’t, since-” He swallows, reaching for the condom that’s now crunched in Lovett’s hand, and putting it aside.

“Fuck.” Lovett’s eyes slide closed as he ruts into the hollow of Dan’s thigh.

Dan feels every inch of him as he slides inside, his groan filling Dan’s ears, the smell of salt and sweat filling Dan’s nose, the heat and size of him almost more than Dan’s senses can handle. Dan’s world narrows to this small space, to the strength and pull of Lovett’s thighs as he thrusts, to Lovett moaning his name like a mantra, to Lovett twitching so hot and deep inside of him. He can feel it when Lovett’s close, the way Lovett’s thighs shake, the way he constricts and grows in Dan, the rhythm of his orgasm, hot-white bursts deep, deep, deep.

Dan gets a hand between them, and all it takes is two thrusts against his own fingers, and he comes, pulling a long, low moan and a last, valiant twitch from Lovett before he collapses against Dan’s chest.

“Shit, if I had known-” Lovett struggles for breath, as he rolls to Dan’s side, sliding out as gently as he can and curling next to Dan’s shoulder. His eyes are already sliding closed.

Dan stretches his legs, his knees cracking and complaining, the tops of his thighs wet and sticky. “We know now,” he whispers.

Lovett hums, scooting a little bit closer, until there’s only an inch or so between them.

***

In early June, Dan accompanies the President on a swing through Europe. They have a series of G7 and NATO talks, early morning meetings in Warsaw and late night negotiations in Brussels. It's their first international trip without Alyssa since President Obama was a Senator, and Dan isn't the only one feeling her loss.

“This isn't working,” Denis snaps, as they board the plane in Belgium. “Pfeiffer, my office.”

Dan and Josh share a careful look, Josh glancing back at the traveling press corps, all watching with interest as Dan follows Denis into the Chief of Staff’s small office. Dan waves to the Press before the door shuts behind him, thanking every god he can think of that it's only a short hour flight to Paris.

Denis drops a stack of newspapers onto the table. “Have you seen these? Ukraine is a mess.”

“I’m impressed that you think I have some control over the international press,” Dan says, as he flicks absently through the headlines. He saw them all at breakfast, and they haven't changed in the 12 hours since. “But I’m not sure what I can do about these.”

“I don't expect you to fix US-Russia relations in a day-”

“How kind of you, to extend that courtesy.”

“- but we need a better message.”

“No shit,” Dan snaps, before he can stop himself. Denis raises an eyebrow, and Dan takes stock of his heart rate and his tone. Denis doesn't deserve the brunt of Dan’s short temper and unsettled thoughts, and he a few deep, steadying breaths. “Sorry.”

Denis shrugs, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket and collapsing into his chair. “Beer?”

Dan sighs, thinks about his seat next to Josh, with its blankets and head rest and the latest draft of Lovett’s pilot on his tablet. He takes the seat across from Denis. “Sure.”

Denis grabs two bottles out of his mini-fridge and hands one over. “Look, I know these long international trips are hard. We work long hours and we're even further from our loved ones than usual-” His stops, his eyes going wide as he remembers Dan’s situation.

Dan waves him away. “Point still stands.”

Denis nods, and he picks up again. “And it's harder with so many new staffers. There's barely a familiar face out there.” He waves towards the back of Air Force One. “But that's why I need you, more than ever.”

Dan takes a deep, steadying breath, feeling his heart rate settle. “Yeah.”

“So, Ukraine?”

“Honestly? There's nothing we can do about Ukraine.” He picks at the label on his beer, debating with himself for a moment, before he continues. “When we get back to DC, though, there's a conversation we can have about revamping the structure of the communications department.”

Denis hums, tipping his bottle in Dan’s direction. “Now that's the kind of thinking I’m looking for.”

Dan forces a smile, clinks his bottle against Denis’, and pointedly does not finish the thought the way he's been thinking about it for months now. _I think we should revamp the communications department to work without me at the center_.

***

“Page 7?” Lovett asks, as he shuffles through the papers littering the bed.

“Yeah,” Dan calls from the bathroom. He flips through his toiletry bag and swears. He’d begged off the fundraiser in Seattle so he could arrive in LA two days before the Presidential motorcade, but in his haste to pack, he'd forgotten to replenish half his supplies after the Europe trip.

He clicks open Lovett’s medical cabinet, digging around for a pair of nail clippers, and freezes. There, in the corner of the cabinet, nestled between Lovett's contact solution and the still unopened curl cream, is Dan’s wedding ring. He forgets the nail clippers and picks up the ring, holding it up to the bright July sun streaming through the window. He remembers what it looked like when he put it there, two and a half years and a move ago, still gold and glinting off the fluorescent lights in Lovett’s old apartment. It's grey now, dull and cold in Dan’s palm, but full of possibilities Dan hasn't dared let himself dream of.

“The Rebecca scene?” Lovett calls from the bedroom. “Is she _too_ divisive to win in a midterm, you think? I could tone her down a little- Dan? What are you doing in there?”

Dan shakes himself, dropping the ring back safely into its spot, before slamming the cabinet closed. He throws some water on his face, then heads back into the bedroom. “Yeah, Rebecca. She's a good foil. If you're writing about the collapse of our political system under mistrust and partisan division, building a female character in the model of Marco Rubio is definitely a good way to go.”

Lovett hums as Dan sits on the mattress next to him, shuffling some of the pages into a neat pile. “I don't know,” Lovett muses, reaching for the pile and making a mess of it again as he searches for a particular page. “Here. I think- maybe, I don't know? She needs- something. An edge. Maybe she should be gay?”

Dan reads the page, even though he doesn't need to. He's read every draft of _Anthem_ since Lovett started writing it before _The Newsroom_ crumbled under the weight of its own expectations. “You know what I thought? The first time you told me about the character?”

“Hmm?” Lovett hums, absently, around the pen in his mouth. He's still shuffling through the pages.

“She'd probably be- the way you've written her,” Dan says, “she'd probably be grey-chromatic.”

Lovett freezes, the papers held loosely in his hands.

“An unrequited soulbond. With her chief of staff - Lizzie, right?’

Lovett swallows. “Lizzie, yeah.”

“Just-” Dan shrugs. “If you wanted to give her some depth, and a backstory for all the anger and hurt she's feeling. I mean, she starts a second Civil War. The motivation’s gotta come from somewhere.”

Lovett swallows again.

“And she's the sympathetic character, right? She's what might have happened, if you hadn't used your story for good. If-” Dan catches Lovett’s eyes, wide and wet and surprised. “If you weren't such a good man.”

“Fuck.” Lovett pushes the papers off the bed, reaching for Dan, spreading his knees and pulling Dan down and into him.

Afterwards, when his head is pillowed on Dan’s chest, his thigh loose and sore and sticky where it's thrown over Dan’s, he says, softly. “Too bad Showtime would never go for it.”

Dan twists his fingers into Lovett’s curls. “Are you sure they wouldn’t?”

“Yeah. I mean-” Lovett breathes, hot and short and real, against Dan’s chest. “No one wants to hear my story.”

“Maybe,” Dan says, doubtfully. “But I think, maybe, you want to tell it.”

Lovett presses a noncommittal kiss to Dan’s chest.

***

“A chocolate martini and your strongest whiskey, on the rocks.” Alyssa smiles brightly at their waiter, winking easily, before she settles back in her chair.

“Retirement suits you,” Dan observes. She looks good, her cheeks are a healthier shade of grey than Dan has seen on her in years and her shoulders are soft and loose under her large, cozy shawl. She looks a little out of place in this hipster Brooklyn coffee shop, but Dan can't blame that on a few months out of the Beltway.

She hums, smiling softly. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Always.” He chuckles, accepting his whiskey from the bartender and taking a small, chest-burning sip. “How is David liking New York?”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “It's crowded and loud and we're sharing an apartment complex with 100 twenty-somethings. David wasn't, really, a twenty-something even when he was one. Neither of us were. He's a little nervous that I won't find a job. A job I like,” she clarifies, but her smile hasn't slipped. “And I'm making us both nervous with how slow this book is coming. But, it's not DC, and we wouldn't trade that for the world.”

“Yeah.” Dan can't help sharing her smile, even as he takes another spine-tingling sip.

“I sleep a lot more now,” she continues, gently. “Although David says I still hear phantom red phone rings. Supposedly, I just sit up in bed sometimes and say something super official. I don't remember a word of it.”

Dan chuckles. “Yeah. I, ahh, do that, too. Supposedly.” Or, at least, Lovett complains about it when he's in town for extended periods. “And I'm not even retired yet.”

She eyes him critically over her martini. “How's your heart?”

Dan rubs over his chest. “Fine. Or, as fine as it can be, ‘with the hours I keep and the stress I carry.’ Doctor’s direct words.”

“Maybe,” Alyssa says, slowly, carefully, “it’s time to start cutting back.”

“Yeah,” Dan says, admitting it, out loud, for the first time. “I've been thinking about it.”

“Really?” Alyssa slides her foot under her so she can lean further across the table. “Dan Pfeiffer, if I didn't know better-”

“What?”

She shrugs. “I always thought it'd take a miracle to drag you outta that White House.”

“Not quite a miracle,” Dan chuckles. “I'm not _that_ bad.”

“Oh what do you know?” Alyssa pushes against his shoulder.

“I, ahh- this job destroyed my marriage,” Dan admits, looking down at his whiskey and watching the swirls of grey in the light from the Edison bulbs over their heads. “It was worth it, then. But, I've been thinking- maybe everything isn’t worth it.”

“Wow.” Alyssa’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “This sounds like quite the woman.”

Dan flinches.

“Or man,” Alyssa corrects, smoothly. “I'd like to meet him sometime.”

“If I get my way, I'd like you to meet him, too,” Dan promises. He takes another sip from his drink and reaches for the menu. “I need something to soak up all this whiskey. And I need you to tell me everything about this interview with Vice.”

***

Jon and Tommy are getting married in early October on Cape Cod. They've been planning it for over a year, with the help of a wedding coordinator and, to Dan’s chagrin, Lovett. Dan’s lost track of the number of times Lovett’s woken him with late night flower crises or, on one memorable occasion, to wonder if “Leo will eat his bowtie. Should I make a back-up. Should I make a backup for the backup?”

“How about a backup for the backup of the backup?” Dan had joked, but Lovett had just moaned and said, “shit you're right,” in a tone that was half-grateful and half-wishing he had never called.

When Lovett calls a few days before the wedding, then, Dan figures it’s another wedding-related emergency. The cake, he bets himself, as he answers his cell and starts packing up for the night. “Let me guess, the baker can’t get Brazilian chocolate so we’re going to have to make do with Swiss?”

“What? No. Why would the baker call you?” Lovett pauses. “Should we be using Swiss chocolate?”

“Lovett,” Dan chuckles. “Whatever Jon and Tommy taste-tested will be fine.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Stop helping me borrow trouble.”

“I’m not-” Dan waves to Harold as he leaves through the West Gate, out into the moonlight. The streets are quiet, the parking lot nearly empty, and Dan doesn’t even glance back at the White House as he unlocks his car. “You’re right, I am. What were you actually calling about?”

“The florist. She’s running a racket. A dollar-fifty a branch?” Lovett starts, but doesn’t quite manage the usual energy and speed of his wedding rants.

“Aren’t the branches just twigs?”

“Yeah.” Lovett sighs. “The New England upcharge. Couldn’t they have just gotten married in Palm Springs like all good LA soulmates?”

“Yes, because they definitely wouldn’t charge double in Palm Springs for the twigs they’d probably import from New England,” Dan argues, as he starts the car and backs out.

“Right,” Lovett says, absently. “You’re right. I should just pay it and be done with it.”

Dan frowns. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant- can’t we hunt and gather the twigs once we get to Massachusetts?”

“No,” Lovett says, aghast. “You can’t just gather any old twig from any old forest. They have to have particular- I don’t know, bends or something.”

“Sure,” Dan agrees, slowly, not really agreeing at all.

“Sorry, you don’t-”

“No, no.” Dan stops at a red light, frowning at his bluetooth. It’s been a long time since Lovett’s been this tentative, and it’s making him anxious in turn. He wipes his palms on his thighs. “I’m glad, actually, that you called. I was thinking of driving up to Cape Cod on Thursday. The President’s in California and flights are insane. If you wanted- I mean, if you’re not busy and the change fee isn’t too expensive-”

“8 hours locked in a car with you?” Lovett asks, but he’s smiling into the phone, and Dan’s heartbeat slows. “I’ll call the airline right now.”

“Okay,” Dan agrees, breathing deeply. “And you know what? Just pay the extra for the damn twigs. It’s better for my heart.”

Lovett’s laughter rings through the car even after he’s hung up. The light turns green. Dan turns on talk radio and finishes his drive.

Lovett’s new itinerary is in his inbox before he gets home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part! Thank you so much to everyone who's made it this far. 
> 
> Epilogue will be posted mid-week.

“There.” Lovett stops mid-yawn, twisting in his seat to point at the huge, ash grey ‘M’ stretching across I-95.

Dan swears, glancing over his shoulder so he can make a tight cut across two lanes of busy mid-afternoon Baltimore traffic. Lovett holds onto the edge of the door, exaggeratedly, and only loosens his grip as Dan pulls into the drive-through line.

“I think I saw the light,” Lovett complains.

Dan rolls his eyes. “A little more warning, next time.”

Lovett hums, lifting onto his ankles so he can lean forward, his chest pulling against his seatbelt. “I don’t know- I kinda like watching you drive like a madman.”

“That’s the adrenaline speaking,” Dan promises.

“Shaken, not stirred,” Lovett corrects. And, when Dan turns his head to press their mouths together, reckless and so much bolder in this liminal space between DC and Cape Cod, Lovett meets him halfway. Lovett’s mouth is warm and open, his hands easy on the back of Dan’s neck, and Dan’s foot leaves the brake for a momentary lurch forward.

“Shit,” he mutters, looking up to see, thankfully, a full car space open in front of them. The car behind them honks and Dan pulls forward, holding out his credit card for the impatient cashier.

“Thanks,” she mutters, still glaring at them as she hands over their bag and a Diet Coke large enough to last Lovett all the way through Philadelphia. “If you don’t need anything else-?”

She lets the question dangle and Dan gives her his most press-approved smile - “have a good evening, ma’am” - and pulls back onto the highway.

“You’re a menace,” Lovett accuses, shaking his head as he settles back into his seat and digs their chicken nuggets out of the bag. He opens the BBQ sauce and holds the container steady on the console between them.

“Kettle, black.” 

Lovett hums and, when he’s done eating, he pillows his jacket against the window and stretches out with a contented sigh. Dan slides his hand under Lovett’s sock, circling the pale, grey line of his ankle.

Two episodes of This American Life later, Lovett stirs, pressing his ankle into Dan’s hand and groaning as he twists his neck. Dan glances over, smiling gently. “What a helpful driving partner you’ve turned out to be.”

“I made no such promises,” Lovett argues, rolling his shoulders and twisting so his feet are stretched further across Dan’s lap.

The sun is slowly setting over the horizon and Dan watches the play of steel and silver and slate across Lovett’s face. Dan presses his thumb into Lovett’s pressure points. “Hey.”

Lovett takes a deep breath, pulling his legs out of Dan’s lap and crossing them under himself. His voice is quiet in the cooling light. “I, ahh, talked to Showtime.”

Dan pulls into the right lane so he can slow down a little. “Yeah?”

“Grey-chromatic storylines aren't universal,” Lovett says, monotone, like he's repeated the words over and over and over again until they could start hurting less.

They bounce around Dan’s chest, barbed and burning. 

“They're not picking _Anthem_ up to series.”

“Shit. Lovett-” Dan’s pulse quickens, until he can barely hear his thoughts over the roar. “I'm sorry, I pushed and I shouldn't have-”

“It wasn't just that.” Lovett sighs, picking at the hem of his t-shirt. “They were never happy with my name on the project. They told Brian that they had _notes_ and _concerns_ about a grey-chromatic’s ability to capture the full spectrum of human emotions.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Lovett shrugs, false and exaggerated. “Hollywood has a, ahh, particular way of expressing the world and-” 

Lovett waves his hand and it catches in a band of metallic light. Dan’s breath catches. He understands that point of view; up until a couple of years ago, he saw the world in the same way. But Dan can't imagine, now, shoving himself back into the box Lovett opened and being satisfied with the half-world his colors had provided.

Dan reaches over, wrapping his hand around Lovett’s knee. “They don't know what they're missing,” he promises, sincere and convicted.

Lovett bites his lip. “Maybe,” he admits, quietly, but he wraps his fingers through Dan’s and doesn't let go.

***

“No, no, Lovett, wait.” Alyssa holds up the hand that isn’t wrapped around Dan’s elbow as she pauses under a low, grey street light. 

Dan stops, swaying a little as he watches her screw up her face in an approximation of -

“Who am I?”

\- what, Dan has no idea.

Lovett, though, tilts his head and offers, “Justice Ginsburg.”

“Yes,” Alyssa exclaims.

“Same wavelength,” Lovett promises, “every time. Have you heard my impression of Mitch McConnell?”

“Yes,” Dan tells him.

“Yes, but, I can never tire of hearing it,” Alyssa adds.

“I can.” Dan waves the heels he’s holding in his free hand towards his cabin. “It’s freezing. Can we-?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lovett rolls his eyes. “Should have made you drink that last martini.”

“But then,” Dan asks, as they pick their way across the poorly-designed stone pathway. In the distance, he can still hear the sounds of the rehearsal dinner winding down. “Who would have gotten us home?”

“It’s Cape Cod.” Lovett shrugs. “Isn’t there, like, a golf cart around here or something?”

Alyssa leans into Dan’s shoulder. “A golf cart sounds nice.” 

Lovett humms in agreement, and then starts humming _Happy_ until they get to the cabin. He stops as they carefully climb the three steps to the porch, and frowns thoughtfully. “Didn’t Jon and Tommy leave a bottle of wine in the fridge?”

Alyssa laughs around a yawn as she slides sideways into a wooden Adirondack chair. “Always prepared.”

“You taught them well,” Dan agrees, as he reaches for a thick, woolen blanket and settles into the hammock.

“I can’t find cups that won’t break.” Lovett returns, holding up the bottle of wine. He’s lost his shoes in the cabin, and he sits on the edge of the hammock, balancing carefully before swinging his socked feet up next to Dan’s head. He bends his knees over Dan’s, tucking the blanket in around himself. “So we’re going to have to share.”

“I think we can handle that.” Alyssa reaches out, stretching just far enough to grab the bottle from Lovett’s hands.

Dan steadies the hammock, his hand on Lovett’s knees under the blanket. The hammock sways gently, and Dan leaves his hand there, spreading his fingers, feeling the heat of Lovett’s skin through his dress pants.

He’d looked good, earlier. All clean lines and tailored pants - “Is this the first tailored suit I’ve ever owned? Maybe. Is it worth the steep price tag? I don’t know,” he had asked, last time Dan was in LA, moments before Dan had proven that yes, yes, the steep price tag was very worth it - through the rehearsal. Standing on the edge of the sea, the wind sweeping through his charcoal curls and rustling his suit jacket, shoulders strong and steady. His smile, wide and stupid and unmistakably softening, as he had caught Dan’s eyes over Jon and Tommy.

By the toasts not even an hour later, his taupe polka-dotted bow tie had been hanging around his neck and his crisp, white shirt had been rolled up at the sleeves. He had laughed through both father-of-the-groom toasts, easy and loose against Dan’s side. 

Dan had caught Alyssa watching them more than once, but, now, she simply leans far enough for Dan’s longer arms to reach the bottle. Her eyes are an inscrutable ash, but her smile is wide across her teeth.

Alyssa leans back in her chair, boneless, as she pulls a cool grey flower from her hair and twists it between her fingers. “The flowers were lovely, Lovett.”

Lovett digs his toes into Dan’s ribs. “Did you hear that? The flowers were ‘lovely.’”

Dan rolls his head so he can look at Alyssa conspiratorially. “There was a whole thing about the branches.”

“Twigs. He called them twigs,” Lovett proclaims, with a long-suffering sigh that shakes the entire hammock. “And there wasn’t a thing. There was an education.”

“Oh, right. My bad.” Dan squeezes Lovett’s knee.

He hands over the bottle, watching as Lovett tips his head back to swallow, the smooth, pale expanse of his neck in the platinum of the moonlight. In the distance, the party has stopped and all Dan can hear is the rush of the water against the shore and the low, steady breathing of his two favorite people. His breath catches and he shifts a little, so his hips are better encased in the blanket.

Lovett presses closer as he reaches over Dan’s body to hand the bottle over. Dan’s sense of touch is on fire, hyper-aware of Lovett’s body spread out along every inch of his own. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, Lovett wiggles his toes, where they’re still pressed under Dan’s side, raising a faux-innocent eyebrow.

“Monster,” Dan mouths.

Lovett shrugs, gesturing to the blankets piled in their laps, where he can surely feel how hard Dan is, pressing against the zipper of his own tailored pants and Lovett’s upper thigh.

“I’ve been rereading To Kill a Mockingbird. My niece has to do a book report-” Alyssa says.

It takes Dan a moment to pull his mind bodily back from the brink, but Lovett says, easily and smoothly, “I can’t believe kids are still writing book reports. They were outdated when I was in middle school.”

“Is that why you still don’t know how to write a decent briefing memo?” Alyssa raises her own eyebrow.

“Hey.” Lovett leans over Dan, doing absolutely nothing to help Dan’s concentration, his torso twisting around Dan’s legs as he snatches the bottle from Alyssa’s hands. “Just because I didn’t have to use, like, papyrus and chisels when I was in school-”

Dan digs his nails into Lovett’s knee. “How much older do you think we are?”

“Mmm,” Lovett hums, taking an extra-long, exaggerated sip as he presses his thigh up and between Dan’s legs. “Ancient.”

Alyssa huffs indignantly. “All I was trying to say - before you self-sabotaged yourself with all this ageism that you’ll be paying for for months - was that this night reminds me, a little, of Alabama.”

“And if we could all spend a night in the great outdoors maybe Republicans and Democrats would realize that we’re all just small pawns in the wider universe and what connects us is really stronger than what divides us?” Dan asks, as deadpan as he can around his laughter.

“Fine, fine, whatever, be cynical. See how well it serves you,” Alyssa waves him off.

“Dan is a closet romantic,” Lovett argues, his smile softening. “You know what J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee have in common?”

Dan swallows around the breath caught in his throat. “They both wrote the great American novel.”

“They both wrote exactly one novel,” Lovett corrects. “One great piece of American literature, then called it a day.”

“Playing along with his metaphor,” Dan grants him, “what exactly are you calling your Catcher in the Rye?”

“My 2010 speech on tax incentives. Obviously.”

Alyssa chuckles. “Obviously.”

“Maybe,” Dan says, unable to keep himself from dropping, a little, into sincerity. He’s been feeling it, lodged deep in his chest, since their talk on the drive up, like he won’t be able to breath until he makes Lovett see what he can see. “Maybe every great writer has a story to tell. Some - Salinger and Harper as Exhibit A - get there right away. Others take a little longer, but they get there in the end.”

“This,” Alyssa announces, as she unravels herself from the chair and grabs her heels in her hand, “has gotten way too philosophical for me. I’m going to go find a horizontal surface.”

Dan pulls his eyes to her. “You okay to get back?”

“I’m in the cabin next door.” She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She leans over them, grabbing the bottle for one last sip, and then presses cold, wet kisses to both their cheeks. “Good night, mi amores.”

“Night,” Dan calls, listening to the crunch of leaves and twigs until he hears the door to her cabin swing open and closed. He rests his head against the knots of the hammock, blinking at Lovett’s pale, soft face. “Lovett.”

“What-?” Lovett swallows, starts again, his voice barely riding above the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore in the distance. “What if I never write again?”

Dan slides his fingers down Lovett’s leg, from his knee to wrap around his foot. “What a stupid question.”

“I have a story to tell?”

Dan nods. “You have a story to tell,” he agrees. He squeezes Lovett’s foot, arching his hips into Lovett’s knee. “Later.”

Lovett shakes his head. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” he mutters, but his expression eases and he laughs as he climbs out of the hammock, turning to help pull Dan up. “Come on, old man. You have some ageism to disprove.”

Dan laughs, and follows him into the cabin.

***

Jon smiles - sappy and dopey and a little bit wet - from the moment the morning dawns warm and sunny and much earlier than either Dan or Lovett are ready for.

“Coffee,” Lovett groans, waving his hand, blindly, in Jon’s direction when Tommy drops him off at Dan’s cabin just after eight. Dan barely spares a thought of thanks that they are both dressed before crossing directly to the pot. 

“I’m getting married today,” Jon says, softly and for the first - although definitely not the last - time. “Fuck.”

“That’s normally what happens at weddings,” Lovett agrees, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter, watching the coffee percolate.

“Yeah, but,” Jon’s smile softens impossibly more, “I’m marrying Tommy.”

“I’d hope so,” Dan chuckles, “otherwise you have an awful lot of explaining to do.”

Jon opens his mouth, his eyes wide and a little glazed, and Dan claps him on the shoulder. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you up to the main house.”

Jon nods and Lovett shoves full mugs into both their hands. “See you later,” he says, letting his fingers linger over Dan’s for a moment before shoving them both out of the cabin.

Dan doesn’t see him again until they’re lining up for the wedding procession. Lovett’s showered, his curls trimmed, encased in the blue-grey suit that Lovett’s sure would be the most tedious shade of heteronormative blue if he could see it. There’s a small quartz flower on his lapel, matching Dan’s own, and Dan has a hard time breathing.

“Hey,” Lovett murmurs, as Dan steps up next to him. “Your tie’s a little- Let me.” He reaches up, fiddling with Dan’s tie and letting his fingers linger along Dan’s chest as he leans up, whispering, “you clean up nice,” in Dan’s ear.

“You, too,” Dan swallows. “How’s Tommy?”

Lovett smiles, wide and unbridled and blinding. “Ready to get married.”

“Yeah.” Dan takes a reluctant step back and laughs. “And how’s the speech?”

Lovett reaches into his breast pocket, fingering the folded paper. “Not quite as ready.”

Lovett’s speech is soft and funny. He owns the stage, in the unadmirable spot between cocktails and dinner, with gently teasing stories about the White House and the life they’ve built together, the three of them, after they left what they had thought was the best thing they’d ever do. “I owe everything I have to Jon,” Lovett finishes, his voice low and barely holding steady. “And Jon owes everything he is to Tommy, so, really, I guess I owe everything to you, too, Tommy. You - the two of you, both - are the best of us. Everyone, please raise a glass, to Jon and Tommy.”

Tommy raises his glass, but there are tears in Jon’s eyes and he can’t do much more than pull Leo into his lap and lean against Tommy’s shoulder. There have been tears in his eyes since he took Tommy’s left hand in his - “I was made for you, Tommy. From the day I was born, I was just waiting for you” - and slid the ring into place. There were tears in Tommy’s, too - “I was lost before I met you, but you showed me who I can be. Jon, you’re my perfect match” - as he slipped Jon’s matching ring onto his hand.

Jon finds them, later. After dinner and after the bar has been flowing. After one of Tommy’s uncles congratulates Lovett on his “supreme taste in flowers, for a grey-chromatic.” After Dan sweeps Alyssa across the dance floor and does a supremely embarrassing rendition of The Jackal with her and Cody. After Dan has shared a handful of group dances with Lovett and has stopped himself from asking for a handful more.

Jon finds them, and wraps his arms around both their necks. He’s lost his suit jacket somewhere and he smells like martinis and sweat and an overwhelming and overflowing joy. “My two favorite people.” His breath is warm and intense, and Dan leans into it. “I’ve been looking for you. I, ahh, have things to say, to both of you. Come outside?”

Lovett glances around Jon’s chest, but Dan can only shrug at him. They don’t have a choice, anyway, as Jon steers them out onto the mostly empty deck. It’s nearing midnight, the air cooling rapidly, but it’s a relief against Dan’s heated skin.

Jon places his champagne flute on the railing and turns to them. “Look, I don’t wanna make this maudlin-”

“No chance of that,” Lovett interrupts.

“- I just wanted to say,” Jon narrows his eyes, “how important you both are to me. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if you hadn’t shown me how. Thank you for putting up with me for the past six years.”

“It’s a burden,” Lovett teases, snatching Jon’s champagne from the railing and taking a long sip, “but it’s worth every minute of it.”

“Hey.” Tommy joins them, sliding between Dan and Jon and slipping an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “Is he being a sap?”

“Yeah,” Dan admits.

“Hey,” Jon protests, crossing his arms across his chest. “Lovett got to be a sap for, like, thirty minutes in his speech. I don’t get five?”

“Humor, Favreau. You’ve gotta break it up with humor, I’ve been telling you for years.”

Tommy laughs. “He has a point. I don’t mean to- but, our parents wanna say goodnight, and then we should think about doing the same.”

Jon nods. “Yeah, okay. Seriously, though, thank you. Both.”

Tommy nods in agreement, and Dan watches them go, before he takes Jon’s place, leaning against the railing. He reaches out, sliding his fingers around the edge of Lovett’s loosened tie. “Your speech really was something.”

“Thanks.” Lovett takes half a step closer, steadying himself with his hands on Dan’s hips, between his shirt and his jacket. “What I said, at the end- I owe you, too. Before I met you-” Lovett shakes his head, blinking his eyes rapidly. “You’ve made me a better person.”

Dan swallows, leaning forward for a short, salty kiss. “You too, god, Jon, you too.”

Lovett chuckles, pulling back just far enough to trace the edge of Dan’s belt, stopping, tantalizingly, over his buckle. “I’ll steal a few pieces of cake, if you get a bottle of wine?”

Dan finds Alyssa at the bar, fluttering her eyelashes and not getting nearly as far as Dan’s straightforward “two bottles of red, please” gets them. She laughs, but wraps her hand around his elbow and lets him lead her through the mass of people and out into the moon-lit night.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” she says, thoughtfully, as they pick their way back down the stone pathway. 

Dan, though, feels a lot less steady than he did the night before, and he leans against her shoulder as much as she’s leaning against his. “It was.”

“I-” She bites her lip, turning to look at him. Her face is ash and pale, and Dan nearly trips over a loose rock. “I want you to have this.”

Dan shifts the wine bottle in his free hand, his heart pounding, hot and a little unsteady, in his ears. “That’s sweet, honestly, but I’m good, I promise.”

“Dan.” She stops them both. The only light is from the moon and the sparse lamp posts, and he can barely make out the shadows on her face. “Jon and Tommy told me. About Lovett.”

“Fuck.”

“They told me a long time ago. But, they also said it couldn’t ever be and-” She grimaces. “You’ve been _so happy_. I’ve _never_ seen you like this. I had hoped, maybe, you’d met someone who could be that happy with you, too.”

“I-” Dan’s mind swirls, flipping through images of Lovett. Lovett, wearing thick metallic sunglasses, laughing around a burrito at their favorite breakfast place in West Hollywood, curls lighter and wild in the LA sun. Lovett, lying in Dan’s sheets, all pale ash and darker gunmetal where he’s flushed from Dan’s mouth. Lovett, wearing a quartz flower in his lapel and looking at Dan like, maybe, Dan is as important as Lovett is to him. 

He takes a deep breath. “I can’t tell you everything because it’s not my story to tell, but I need you to trust me when I say that I have.”

She tilts her head. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know. And I love you for it.” Dan smiles softly. “And it still might not work out. We have a lot of baggage, both of us, but we’re working through it. He’s worth changing for. He’s worth waiting for.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. You know I’m not the most patient person.”

Dan chuckles, wrapping his hand around her elbow and steering them towards the cabins. “I know, trust me. This isn’t one you can fix, though.”

“Fine, fine. Just let it be stated for the record how displeased I am about that.”

“Duly noted.”

Lovett’s waiting for them at Dan’s cabin, sitting cross-legged in the Adirondack chair and halfway through a piece of wedding cake. “Hey,” he swallows. “I grabbed a few extras, if you want-”

“I do want.” Alyssa takes a piece from the table next to Lovett. “I have a bottle of wine and a husband waiting for me to call, so, good night you two.”

She winks as she backs away.

“What-?” Lovett starts to ask, but shakes his head. “Nevermind. I don’t care. You’ve been in that suit _for hours_ and I’ve barely touched you. A literal crime.”

“What a shame,” Dan agrees, as he helps Lovett up. “We should probably do something about that.”

Lovett rolls his eyes, “you are the absolute worst actor,” but follows him inside.

***

The soft, relaxed feeling Dan has after the wedding lasts a few, short days. Until the administration is bombarded by a series of crises that snowball without any real end in sight.

A looming Cold War in Europe.

An encroaching ISIS stronghold in Syria.

An Ebola outbreak in West Africa.

Communications crises around the Senate's post-9/11 interrogation memo and the threat of the Ebola spread.

In late October, the New York Times publishes a piece bemoaning the loss of Secretaries Clinton and Gates, claiming that Obama’s new cabinet is less cohesive and prone to infighting. Everyone's favorite quote - the one the monitors email to everyone and post on each others’ screens - is that these crises “would exact a toll personally and professionally on any group.” The ribbing, Dan knows, is meant to blow off steam during a turbulent and trying few weeks, but to Dan it only serves to remind him, over and over again, of just how tired he is.

It comes to a head in mid-November. Dan spends the morning in back-to-back meetings in the Oval, discussing possible social media options to increase John Kerry’s likability among the young progressive base.

“Was I appointed Secretary of State or official State tweeter?” Kerry asks, exasperated, a couple of hours in.

“You know,” Dan says, keeping his voice admirably flat, “just how important public perception is to a successful Secretary of State.”

When he leaves the meeting, though, Pat meets him with a grimace and a recording of Josh’s midday press briefing. Dan watches, his arms crossed across his chest, as Josh puts his foot in his mouth.

“POTUS is 'relying on his oldest, most trusted advisors to get through these trying times. That's why he appointed Vice President Joe Biden to oversea the Ebola response,’” Dan repeats, not even waiting for Josh’s door to stop shaking off its hinges as he yells over it.

“I know.” Josh’s eyes are wide and pale, as he raises his forehead off his desk.

“Because the President doesn't have faith in his new Secretaries of State and Defense,” Dan continues. “Which is fine, because those aren't important positions that the President should be relying on.”

“It’s bad.”

“No shit it's bad.” Dan knocks his knuckles against the edge of Josh’s desk, not even wincing at the pain. “It took me, what? Ten seconds to read through the lines of that statement. The press corps isn't stupid.”

“They're a little stupid,” Josh tries.

“Not _that _stupid. And we wonder why they write stories about the Obama Administration’s elitism and condescension with the press. You know what? We don't even need a Republican Congress. We do fine at destroying our agenda without them.”__

__Josh’s face drops and he closes his eyes, digging his fingers into his nose. “I’m gonna fix it.”_ _

__“You better. We can't take another scandal right now.”_ _

__Josh frowns. “It wasn't great,” he admits, slowly, “but it's not a scandal. That's going a little far, no?”_ _

__“Just fix it.” Dan slams the door behind him again, and everyone in Upper Press jumps, averting their eyes as he storms through their desks and into his own office._ _

__The world’s a little fuzzy around the edges, grey closing in around him. He leans against his door, closing his eyes and counting his breaths for longer than he'll ever admit, until his heart settles back into an approximation of normal._ _

__He doesn't move until his phone rings, then he digs it out of his pocket and answers, “Pfeiffer.”_ _

__“I hear you're having quite a day.”_ _

__Despite himself, Dan chuckles. He feels his shoulders loosen. “Hi, Lovett. Good morning to you, too, Lovett.”_ _

__Lovett snorts. “Hi. Good morning. Stop terrorizing your staff.”_ _

__“Did Josh call you?”_ _

__“Pat called Favs. He's worried about your mental state.”_ _

__“Honestly?” Dan sighs, crossing to his desk and falling into it. He swivels his chair, so he's facing the framed photo of him and POTUS exiting Air Force One that covers half the wall. “So am I. It's been a long few days.”_ _

__“It's been a long few months,” Lovett corrects, biting back the follow-up Dan knows he's been holding in for weeks now._ _

__“Yeah,” Dan admits, meaning, _yeah it's been an awfully long year_ but also _yeah, I know what you aren't saying_ and _yeah, I've been thinking about waking up next to you every morning, too_. _ _

__“Okay,” Lovett says, his voice lightening, “good talk.”_ _

__“Hey,” Dan stops him. “I've gotta get through Ebola and Syria and this New York Times thing, but, then, we should talk.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Lovett breathes. “Yeah, okay. And in the meantime, be a little nicer to your staff, hmm?”_ _

__Dan laughs but after he hangs up he does go apologize to the bullpen, generally, and Josh, specifically._ _

__***_ _

__Lovett sends Dan a YouTube link._ _

__It's to his personal account, with just "fine, fine, I was wrong" in the subject line. But, Lovett's been sending increasingly inappropriate Hanukkah songs over the last few days, so Dan closes his office door before he opens it._ _

__The Moth's YouTube channels loads, Lovett's face framed by a simple, black curtain. He's standing on a small stage, his stone grey face washed out by the curtain and the charcoal shirt he's wearing. His fingers are almost ivory-pale where he's gripping the microphone._ _

__"Hi," he says, stepping forward. "I'm Jon Lovett, former presidential speechwriter. I know you were probably hoping I'd tell you a story about President Obama today and, honestly, I was planning to._ _

__"But, there's a dear friend of mine who's been pushing me to tell a different story. For months, I told him no. I didn't think it was important to tell it. It's personal and it's both not unique and not universal enough to be interesting. But- and, let me tell you, I've been in politics most of my adult life, I hate admitting when I'm wrong- but, I was wrong. So, I thought I'd take the opportunity, now, to tell that story._ _

__"I got my colors when I was fifteen._ _

__"I was a young gay, Jewish kid on Long Island. I was a mathlete and I kicked ass at model UN. I was not well-liked._ _

__"But that was okay. High school isn't fun for most people, right? I was going to grow into my nose and my biting sense of humor. I was going to work hard so I could go to a college where intelligence is a benefit rather than a liability. And someday I was going to meet my soulmate and my plain grey world was going to burst into color. Someone was going to love me enough, faults and all, to make that happen._ _

__"That's how it works, right?_ _

__"We are bombarded with soulmate stories from the moment we're born. My earliest memories are watching old romantic movies with my grandparents - Singing in the Rain and Gone With the Wind and Casablanca. I remember watching, with bated breath, for Clark Kent to meet Lois Lane, for that moment when the film switched to color. Or, so my grandparents assured me it did._ _

__"I remember being eight years old, hiding under my blankets with a flashlight, long after my bedtime, devouring every comic book I could find. Stories of outcast kids just like me, who became heroes the moment they got their colors, and gained the acceptance and approval that always seemed to go along with that._ _

__"I remember being eleven years old, the first time I came home with bruises on my knees and cuts on my elbows. I remember how much it stung as my mom cleaned out the gravel with peroxide, and I remember how hopeful I felt when she promised me that it would get better. I'd meet him, whoever he is, and it'd all get better._ _

__"All these things ran through my head in the few, short, vibrant moments I had my colors._ _

__"And then they were gone._ _

__"For fifteen years, I had bought into society's hopes and dreams and promises for a better, easier life that conforms to that mold I saw in books and movies and on TV. I was devastated, I was lost, but I was also a little relieved. I was, for the first time, not waiting around for someone else to change my life. I was the arbiter of my own destiny, and I took it by the horns._ _

__"So, I worked hard. I got a speechwriting job, first on the Hillary Clinton campaign and then in the Obama White House. I wrote scripts and got them on TV. I met people, good, strong, funny people who actually wanted to spend time with me. I was grey-chromatic, but my life was so much fuller than they say a grey-chromatic's life can be._ _

__"Then I met someone. My world didn't burst into blues and yellows and reds, but it did change in all the ways that matter. It's taken me a long time, certainly longer than it should have, to realize that meeting your soulmate isn't about being able to see colors. It's about changing your world-view, it's about someone else having such a profound effect on you that the world feels deeper, more vibrant, inextricably better for him being in it. I may never see the leaves change in Vermont or the reds and yellows of a Caribbean sunset, but I'll never forget the exact shade of rose-grey flush on my soulmate's face the first time I made him cry with laughter. That's enough for me. That would be enough for anyone._ _

__"Thank you."_ _

__Lovett steps back and the video fades to black._ _

__Dan doesn't waste a moment as he scrambles for his phone, his voice rough as he reaches the President's secretary. "I need the first couple minutes he has."_ _

__"He has five in ten. But, really only five. He cannot be late for the Joint Chiefs again."_ _

__"I only need five."_ _

__"Can I tell POTUS what it's about?"_ _

__"I-" Dan tries to clear his throat, but judging by how quickly she's granting his request, he knows he must sound exactly as devastated and unmoored as he feels. "I need to go away for a few days."_ _

__***_ _

__Lovett answers the door in his boxers and a 76ers t-shirt from the casual collection that Dan leaves in LA. It's too big on him, but he has the sleeves cuffed around his biceps, tight where he's holding himself up against the door jamb. His eyes are wide behind his glasses and he twists his feet._ _

__“This is some _10 Things I Hate About You_ -level rom-com shit,” he muses, the corners of his mouth twitching and his voice a little shaky. “I was expecting a phone call. Unless it's- You would be the kinda guy to fly 2,600 miles to let me down easy.”_ _

__Lovett’s expression drops, vulnerable and anxious, and Dan shakes his head, “stop talking,” as he drops his backpack at Lovett’s feet. “You are-” he continues, as he wraps his hands round Lovett’s hips and walks him backwards into the house. The door clicks shut loudly behind him. “- an idiot. You have _no idea_ how in love with you I am.”_ _

__Lovett's smile is slow and shy, but it lights up his face in flashes of slate and shale. “I have a little bit of an idea. I did tell the entire world that you're my soulmate.”_ _

__“You did,” Dan agrees, as he slides his fingers under the hem of Lovett’s t-shirt. Lovett vibrates in his hands, his skin warm and soft and sensitive._ _

__“So,” Lovett shrugs, a little aborted as he raises his hands, twisting them behind Dan’s neck so he can urge Dan down, “you've still got a ways to go.”_ _

__“If I had known this was a competition-” Dan murmurs, as he lowers his head to meet Lovett. It's wet and uncoordinated, Lovett laughing into his mouth as he tries to steer them towards the bedroom without putting space enough between them to see the way._ _

__“It's always a competition,” Lovett argues, finally, as he hooks his finger in the buttons of Dan’s shirt - the plane-stale shirt that Dan put on for work almost fifteen hours ago now - and pulls Dan onto the bed with him._ _

__“In that case,” he agrees, sliding down the bed and spreading Lovett’s thighs, “I love you,” he breathes into the soft skin of Lovett’s inner knee, “desperately,” kisses his way up Lovett’s light grey thighs, “blindingly,” as he hooks his index fingers in Lovett’s boxers and pulls them down, “life-alteringly,” as he pulls Lovett into his mouth._ _

__Lovett arches into him, his shoulders lifting off the mattress and his thighs shaking around Dan’s ears. He leaks onto Dan’s tongue, thick and heavy and more real than anything Dan’s ever felt before._ _

__He opens Lovett up, slow and careful, and only pulls off when Lovett digs at his shoulders, his fingers flexing and strong against Dan’s bare skin. Dan has to close his eyes as he slides in, overwhelmed by the feel of Lovett’s skin, the fluttering of his muscles and the smell of his aftershave and the sounds of his breathing, low and harsh and hitched. The whispers of “I love you,” passed between them, a mantra in the rhythm of their bodies._ _

__Dan opens his eyes as he's teetering on the edge. Lovett is flushed, all long lines of grey skin laid out under him, tinted rose and silver, and Dan bites back his orgasm for just a moment, for just long enough to whisper, “open your eyes.” Lovett blinks at him, blurry and loose, and Dan leans down, kissing him as they tumble over the edge._ _

__Lovett rolls onto his side, curling his knee over Dan’s thighs and pressing his fingers into Dan’s chest. “Thank you,” he says, softly, breath quiet against Dan’s skin. “I would never have told that story if you hadn't pushed me to.”_ _

__“When I pushed you,” Dan chuckles, wrapping his fingers around Lovett’s and holding him there, “I didn't factor playing such a large role in it.”_ _

__“Of course you did.” Lovett rolls his eyes, then presses a kiss to their hands. “You are my story.’_ _


	6. Chapter 6

Dan finishes tying his tie and puts his knee on the mattress, leaning over to press a kiss to Lovett's curls. Lovett groans, pushing Dan away. “It's too fucking early. Go do- I don't know, but do it somewhere else.”

Dan chuckles, leaning back on his heel. “How does Idaho sound? Far enough away?”

Lovett blinks the sleep out of his eyes, rolling over so he can curl around Dan’s knee. His eyes are still unsteady, although a little clearer than they were just a few hours ago when they stumbled into Dan’s DC apartment after their third SOTU after party. “Shit. That's today.”

Dan chuckles. He doesn't honestly feel much better than Lovett does, but he has a Presidential flight to catch and the job of his life to resign from. “Yeah. Been circled on the shared calendar for weeks now.”

“I forgot.” Lovett’s face twists and he struggles to sit up, groaning.

Dan shakes his head, lifting up from the mattress. “I'll call you from Idaho, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lovett nods, then grimaces, regretting it immediately. “The minute you land.”

“‘Kay.” Dan pauses, then leans down for a stale, whiskey-soaked kiss, before he backs out of the room and out of the apartment for what feels like the last time as an official member of the President's senior staff.

Over the next couple of months, Dan will be wrapping up his audit and reorganization of the communications department. He'll be at the White House every day, probably working more hours than ever to make sure that no loose strings are left unattached. He'll be traveling on Air Force One, to India and Saudi Arabia and California and Pennsylvania. He’ll sit in the Oval and he'll fight for an everyman communications strategy, just as he's always done. For the rest of his life, he'll answer the phone every time POTUS calls. Day or night.

But this trip to Idaho feels like a fitting thematic ending to the eight most important years, career-wise, of his life. Dan’s earliest memories of POTUS are of him as a Senator, standing strong and proud, offering messages of hope in kitchens in New Hampshire and fields in Iowa. From the beginning, Dan has advocated over and over again for a return to the politics of those first days. For the continuation of the kind of small-scale, directly-to-the-people messaging that they're about to do at Boise State.

Dan feels a disorienting mix of apprehension and calm as he downs three large, strong black coffees, then knocks on the door of POTUS’ air borne office.

“Hey, Dan, come, sit.” POTUS smiles wide and relaxed with the SOTU behind him and a public event in front of him. “Quite a speech last night.”

Dan nods. “The speechwriters outdid themselves this year.”

“But, just between you and me,” he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “it was the delivery that sold it, wouldn't you say?”

Dan chuckles, then takes a deep, steadying breath. “Sir-” 

He has a list ready. A list of reasons, excuses, explanations that he’s been writing, refining, thinking about from the moment he woke up in LA to Lovett musing about which of Dan’s couches would fit best in the living room.

_My heart. My medication’s been working fine, but Doctor Ronny’s been warning me for years that another stroke-like-incident is likely under this level of stress. I should stop playing with fire, now, while I’ve only been burned once_.

_The White House is well-situated. With the changes we made after the world’s worst Fall of crises, the comms department is stronger than it's ever been. It's time to take a step back, give others the chance to lead_.

_I need to make time for myself. I need to make time for my partner. He's been endlessly patient, but you know him, sir, and there's an end even to_ his _willingness to wait_.

In the end, though, the only words he needs are, “working for you has been the greatest privilege of my life.”

***

Standing in the Oval Office six weeks later, Dan feels none of the twisting anxiety he'd felt for all the people he's watched stand in this exact spot, raise these same champagne flutes, make the same promises to always be on the other end of the phone. When Jon and Tommy and Alyssa did this, he'd felt an overwhelming sense of loss for himself and sadness for them, that they were giving up on this amazing, important thing. Now that it's him in this spot, though, he feels the same hope for his future that he'd felt in 2007.

Lovett’s waiting for him in his office, surveying the boxes with his hands on his hips. “I left the White House with one box.”

“You did not.” Dan rolls his eyes as he takes the last photo off the wall. It's one of his favorites - Obama’s hand on his shoulder, deplaning Air Force One - and Jon and Tommy have orders to put it up in a place of prominence before Lovett gets back from Asia to complain. “You left half your belongings in the bullpen and it took three of our cars to get it all out.”

Lovett hums. “Spread as many false rumors as you want, but the movers are still not gonna like it.”

“I added another 15 boxes to the register,” Dan assures him. “How it's all gonna fit in the house, that's a separate problem.”

“A problem,” Lovett tells him, “that we don't have to deal with for the next three months. Do you think we owe Jon and Tommy more than the bottle of wine and cheese basket I left for them?”

“I think we owe them an entire vacation of their own.”

“A wine vacation. To Sonoma, maybe,” Lovett muses. “We can watch Leo. It'll be good practice, anyway.”

“Give me three months on a beach, then we can have the dog conversation,” Dan promises, as if he hasn't made the same promise once a week since December.

Dan looks around his office one last time, at the bare white walls, cracked and stained now that the photos are down. His computer has already been wiped and he’d handed over his blackberries with great fanfare before his trip to the Oval. It looks like it did six years ago, when he first walked into Upper Press just moments after POTUS took the Oath.

He takes a deep breath and holds out his hand. “Walk with me?”

Lovett takes it, squeezing tightly as they make their last walk out the West Gate.

***

“Oh, no, the elephant lost the war. But,” Lovett laughs, as he pulls up a photo on his phone and passes it around the circle, “Dan _definitely_ lost that particular battle.”

“I thought the scar was ruggedly handsome?”

Lovett purses his lips, but it doesn't last long as he reaches up to trace the raised line on Dan’s temple. “For as long as it lasts,” he admits. “But the story’s still embarrassing.”

“That,” Dan laughs, “I can't disagree with. Anyone need a refill?”

There's a chorus for more wine and beer, so Dan leaves their guests on the porch and heads inside. He finds Alyssa in the kitchen, already mixing a tray of gin and tonics. He bumps her shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She grins, handing over a glass. “I don't know how you find anything in here. Everything's so-”

“Grey?” He offers, then chuckles as her eyes widen, pupils taupe and large behind her glasses. “Lovett liked the shade of the cabinets and,” he shrugs, “it's easier for us like this.”

She nods, her shoulders a little tight.

Dan frowns. “Hey, I hope- I mean, thank you. For coming out for this.”

“For your house warming?” She glares at him. “I wouldn't miss it for the fucking world. Besides,” she leans closer, “the weather's a lot better on this coast.”

“For sure.” He takes a sip of his drink - it's the good gin, the stuff Jon and Tommy brought back from Sonoma - and he sighs happily around it. “We have an extra bedroom. It's yours, any time you want it.”

She smiles, but lapses into silence. Never, in all the years he's known her, has she been as quiet and careful as she's being now. Dan frowns at her.

“Alyssa-” he starts, at the same time as she says, “look, I owe you an apology-”

Despite himself, Dan chuckles and waves her on. “I don't know what you could possibly have to apologize for. But I love hearing you say you were wrong so, please, go ahead.”

“Last year, at Jon and Tommy’s wedding-” She looks at him, her face drawn and pale and serious. “I wasn't very kind to you.”

He shakes his head, reaching out to wrap his fingers around her wrist. “No, hey, you were looking out for me.” He squeezes. “It wasn't necessary, but it was appreciated.”

“Well-” She adjusts her glasses, then leans closer, bumping her hip against his and resting her head on his shoulder. “As long as I'm forgiven.”

“Always. For anything.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “And you're, ahh, okay with all this?”

“What?” She pulls away, her expression aghast, as she punches his shoulder. “Dan Pfeiffer, how dare you even ask such a thing?”

He holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Am I okay with my best friend being deliriously happy?” She mutters, shaking her head. “Honestly.”

“How long does it take to get a case of beer? The natives are getting restless” Lovett calls, as he slips through the sliding glass door. He shakes his head as he sees them. “I should have known. Bad influences, both of you.”

“I was just telling Dan,” Alyssa tells him, “that you both owe me the most expensive dinner in town to make up for all the money I lost in the 'when will Dan leave the White House’ office pool.”

“I'm throwing a party. I'm providing wine and beer and gin,” Lovett reaches for Dan’s glass, waving it at her before taking a sip. “I'll be providing food of some sort. Probably whatever I can get the quickest via Postmates after Jon and Tommy burn all the meat on the grill. What more do you want?”

“A slideshow of Thailand, for one. Dan's shared, like, three pictures of Mai Thais.”

Dan shrugs easily. “They were the only appropriate ones.”

Lovett wrinkles his nose, “don't be gross,” then sighs towards Alyssa conspiratorially. “Besides, he slept fifteen hours a day. The only inappropriateness going on was all the heart to hearts I was having with the sea turtles.”

“I'll have to thank those turtles for taking one for the team.” Dan reaches for the drink and Lovett meets him halfway, for a quick, close-mouthed kiss.

“See. Delirious.” Alyssa raises an eyebrow as she gathers up the tray. “I'm gonna go disperse these to your guests.”

“Thank you,” Dan calls, but he doesn't look away from Lovett. Lovett, whose face is flushed with the alcohol and the company and the lingering burn he got not a week after they arrived in Thailand. Lovett, who waited for him, who trusted Dan enough to take down every wall he'd been building since he was a teenager. Lovett, who has changed Dan’s world in every way that matters. “Hey,” he says, quietly. “I am sorry for sleeping through Thailand.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Lovett chuckles. “Besides, you're here, now. That's all that matters. I'm not gonna begrudge you, like, a year of sleep after the past eight.”

Dan leans down for another kiss.

“But,” Lovett says, as he pulls away, grabbing their drink and stepping back from the counter, “you might wanna get me a dog to replace those sea turtles.”

Dan already has the number of Jon’s breeder in the pocket of his shorts, but he's not about to tell Lovett yet. He rolls his eyes, instead, and follows Lovett into the blinding grey LA sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for going on this journey with me! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/) to talk about these idiot boys


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